by Max Keith
“Thank you, Captain.” She smoothed her extravagant dress over her breasts, the nipples still aching where the bard had nibbled at them in the night. She pursed her lips and decided she looked delightful. “We shall go to the salon to wait?”
“Certainly, m’lady.” Spavige was peering out the window at he line of pecan trees. “Is that… no. I must be mistaken.”
She glanced out, then smiled. “Yes, Niko, it’s an owl.” The thing must have been there for days, but she hadn't noticed it until this morning. She’d always liked birds, even the fierce ones.
“It’s awake in the day.” The captain frowned, his pig eyes sinking even further into his face. “I had always been told they’re only awake by night.”
“Me too,” she sighed, but these years had taught her there was much she’d been taught that wasn’t true. She reached out to lay her hand in the crook of Spavige’s arm. “Shall we?”
The salon was at the front of the house, and it struck her as she entered that it was directly above the little cellar space that would be the tomb of poor Harlin of Gethell’s. Or whatever his name was. There was a chill in the salon today, provided entirely by the silent waif in the corner. Affecting the spiky hair and the short dark robe of an apprentice priest, she always gave off an air of extreme danger.
Slender, elfin, petite; none of these was the right word. All implied presence. The woman who dressed as a boy wasn’t even there. She came and went and left nothing whatsoever to mark her presence, other than that faint whiff, that slightest whisper, of a threat so profound and extreme that it took one’s breath. She was, plainly, a killer with neither compunction nor conscience, and yet she remained a total nonentity. A man could watch her kill and then not even recall her face. Plenty had. She waited now, coldly diffident, blending with no effort into the furniture.
Lady Wennowes attempted to speak to her. “Have my people told you what we’ve got in my cellar?” she asked easily, feeling like a clown in the overdone dress.
Soulless eyes blinked once, then swung slowly over to regard Lady Wennowes without emotion. “If it is the bard,” she piped, “I am not surprised.”
Wennowes felt suddenly like a guest in her own house. She cleared her throat. “How did you know?”
A bleak smile with neither joy nor mirth flickered across pale lips. She nodded once. “He was marked for death from the moment I saw him, on that very chair,” she rasped, jerking her head into the far corner, “in this very room.” She sent her gaze furtively around, seeing everything. “I always know when I’ll kill a man.”
Wennowes felt her face go pale, bloodless with terror. “Do you?” she asked stiffly, with an incline to her head. There came a silent pause which the Blade of Langmyre showed no desire to fill; she obviously felt she’d said enough. And the minutes ground by, parceled out by the water clock on the mantle, and once precisely five had passed the door swung wide to admit the old priest, the sun glinting off his gleaming silver hat. Tallora Wennowes crossed at once to join him, her hands grasping at his. “My lord Farrick!” she burbled, and he smiled bloodlessly.
“Really,” he drawled in the sharp accent of the Northern Rump, “is my disguise as poor as that?” He laughed affably as he shrugged out of the scratchy robe and tossed the hat onto a chair by the door, first checking to make sure the drapes were drawn. “Gah,” he exclaimed, rubbing at the red mark on his forehead where the hat had rubbed his skin. “Never again, I say. Next time, I’ll pose as a shipowner. I’ve seen a number of them in this fucking town; they all seem fat and comfortable.” He removed the beard with greater care, but seemed just as happy to see it go. “I’ll never understand the attraction of a beard, either to man or to woman. I find it scratchy; I’m sure a woman would as well, though of course my present disguise precludes such experiments.” He laughed easily. “Shall we sit? Why did you want me to come early? Your message seemed most insistent.”
“My apologies, for it was delayed at that. It took my man some time to discover your new lodging.”
“Yes.” The mage sighed. “The original hideout appears to have been discovered. The magistrate, no doubt; he must be sharper than I’d realized. We were attacked.”
“Attacked!” Wennowes’ eyes widened. “Any difficulty?”
Farrick waved a dismissive arm. “It was a magic attack, and a poor one; the work of a mere Nextmage, at best. I expect the City Mage has a bit to answer for. Possibly I’ll be able to deal with him one day.” He smiled again. “But your message said you had something for me?”
“Ah!” Lady Wennowes smirked, back in her element. “I’ve found you a Royal spy, I think.” Farrick’s eyes kindled with immediate interest, though he did not yet smile. “I was just telling your companion…” She turned, but Langmyre was quite gone.
“Fear not. She often drifts off.” He chose that moment to arch his eyebrow, looking more and more like a mage as the disguise of the streets fell further behind. “I think she goes to use the latrine.”
Wennowes peered around the corner leading to the corridor. “Does she eat?”
Farrick frowned, giving that serious thought. “I don’t know that I have seen her eat.”
“Drink?”
“She does drink. Mostly water.”
“Fuck?”
He smiled indulgently. “I haven’t noticed. Not with me, surely, though she’s from Lammorel. She’s shared some of their customs with me; fascinating. You’ve heard of their beliefs about sperm, for instance.”
She felt a twinge below her gut; truly, there had been moments of uncomfortable fullness last night. The bard had been… copious in his affections. “I’ve heard many beliefs about sperm.”
“No doubt,” the mage replied softly, flickering his gaze up and down her frame. “A lady as lovely as yourself, if I may say it, surely has a passing experience with sperm.”
“Sir!” she protested. “You insult me.” And he did, gravely, if he were a normal visitor and she a normal hostess. But neither of them was, and they both chuckled.
“No,” he added, “I’m only teasing. But she believes, like the rest of the Free People, that sperm is somehow sacred, that it carries some importance to the gods.” He shrugged. “Truth to tell, Lady Tallora, she and I are simply coworkers. I’m not a friend of hers, but I do admire her work. She’s been very useful to me in eliminating certain people of importance to your King and his Regent.”
She shuddered. “Not my King, I hope. But here you strike at the heart of the matter, for I may have such a person downstairs. Shall we pay a visit?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” Farrick replied pleasantly. He nodded, a courtly nod such as a man gives his equal. “After you.”
And so it was that Aslo Ferrick found what he’d been seeking for so many months now: a spy for the Realm, high in the counsels of a member of the Royal Family, even if not the Regent himself. For as they passed down the narrow servants’ stairs to the basement, Wennowes told Ferrick what she knew. “My Guildmage figured it out,” she explained. “When he saw the bard, he remembered the face of the man who had pursued you to your lodging above the metalsmith’s district.”
“Indeed. Mages are good with faces. Your Tighe is a credit to our profession.”
“I remembered, then, a letter I had received some time ago, a note from a… a colleague of ours, we’ll say,” she went on, “a fellow trader of information down in the Borderlands. He described a band of adventurers, working for the King’s sister, Raxikins? Raxona? Well, Raxi-something; that family all has the same fucking names. But this band of halfwits was becoming known down that way for certain work. And one is a bard.” She shrugged. “After that, it was simple; some well-chosen questions while in bed last night confirmed I had the right man. It’s always useful, you’ll agree, to have the right correspondents.”
“Indeed. It’s why we chose to approach this house so long ago. Traders are useful, if you’ll pardon my saying so.”
“I shall. Once my fucking Royali
st husband was out of the way…” She smiled. “Ancient history. Here we are. It’s the door in the corner.”
“A moment, Lady Tallora,” the mage whispered, his hand on her arm. “Thank you for your service. It happens I know something of this, hmm, this bard. Do I take it from these surroundings,” he went on, wrinkling his nose with distaste, “that he’s been kept down here all night? Possibly beaten?”
“Well, not quite all night…” She blushed, and the mage winked in understanding. “All day, surely. And yes, my men might have had some things to say to him at times.”
“Excellent.” Farrick seemed pleased. “It will make my job easier. A torturer sometimes gets more information by being kind than by cutting bits off, though certainly it always comes to that in the end. But it will be easier if I can start by making our bard more comfortable, though if I may say it, not as comfortable as you were able to make him last evening…” She blushed again, prettily, as her mother had taught her. “I’d be obliged if you'd wait ten minutes, then send down a servant with some blankets, some food, and some water.”
“Of course. I’ll send Gitsey.”
“Yes, the resourceful Gitsey,” Farrick mused. “Perfect.” He glanced around. “The door in the corner? The stout one?”
“Indeed.”
“Thank you.” He grinned nastily. “This will be a most suitable appetizer for tonight’s dinner. Won’t it, dear?”
Wennowes jumped, stifling a scream, when she realized the Blade of Langmyre was a step behind her, those unsettling eyes studying her. “An early dessert,” she piped.
“I’ll just go and find Gitsey,” Wennowes stammered, and then she flew for the stairs as though all the hounds of all the hells were after her. Farrick shook his head.
“These people we deal with,” he sighed. “They live in fear. That’s no way to be.”
Langmyre paused. “I think it’s me,” she admitted. “I’ve noticed I tend to have a certain effect on people.”
“Yes. For this, I’d just like you to sit quietly at first while I work; you know the drill. Just glare balefully and play with your blades.”
“Fine.” A knife appeared in her hand. “What does ‘balefully’ mean?”
Farrick winked. “Just be yourself, dear. Ready?”
The blade flashed, and the door swung heavily open. The stench that greeted them was truly awful; Langmyre did not seem bothered, but Farrick went ahead and used a simple blocking-spell to get some clearer air near his nose. It wouldn’t last, though; he shook his head. Magic was all very well, but there were times that a mere fan, perhaps with a slave to wield it, would work better than a spell. Farrick sighed; not for the first time, he wondered why the Realm kept slaves while the Empire did not. They were so often useful.
And so it was that Cashel came to, weak and disoriented, to a look of concern from a man of middle years with a Kingsmage’s golden hood. He was waving some sort of vial beneath Cashel’s nose, full of a sharp sweet fragrance that had brought him awake. He coughed, his cracked ribs protesting, and moved his face sluggishly out of its puddle of vomit. The mage made a sympathetic clucking noise.
“My, my,” he said, his voice mild and almost kind. “You have made quite a mess of your life, whoever you are. You really should not have chased me the other day, when you made such a fuss by the harbor; that’s what brought you to this dire place, you know.” He sighed. “Still, I’m not such a fool as to think you did it on your own, and that’s a point in your favor.”
“Graghh,” was Cashel’s reply; he seemed to have some teeth missing.
“You should lie still, Master Bard,” the mage went on, still so sweetly reasonable. “Soon I’ll look you over and figure out what these untutored fools have done to you, and then you and I will talk. Did they find out your name? I know it’s not Harlin.”
“It’s Cashel.” The voice came from the door, where Gitsey was flitting through with a bundle of towels and blankets. “Cashel of Tangle Brook, I think. He told us.”
“Us!” The mage’s eyebrows rose with his voice as he looked over at the girl. “You were a part of this little game too, then?”
“Just a part.” The maiden smiled grimly. “He’s a nice enough fellow, and I enjoyed bathing him yesterday.” Cashel whimpered; was it only yesterday? So much had happened since, but of course now everything looked to stop happening, and bloodily. “I didn’t hurt him any, but I do enjoy teasing. Plus,” she went on with some satisfaction, “it was me got his name out of him. Not that lout Brasher nor that asshole Spavige.”
The mage smiled. “Well then. As you enjoyed bathing him, would you please clean him now? It needn’t be too thorough, but I wouldn’t want to be getting blood on my robe, you see.”
Gitsey snorted. “I’ll come back with some water,” she shrugged, and then the door closed and the blessed warmth of a blanket fell over Cashel like a foretaste of heaven.
“Save your strength, Master Cashel,” the mage added. “You’ll need it soon, I promise you.”
Cashel opened the eye that wasn’t swollen shut. “Who are you?” he croaked, with some effort; his throat felt like he’d swallowed his missing teeth which, he reflected, was a definite possibility. The mage’s smile hardened.
“Oh, you know who I am,” he replied affably. “I am Aslo Farrick, Imperial Mage in the Emperor’s service. I’m pleased to meet you. I would offer my hand, but yours has shit on it. And, of course, someone has been underneath your nails.” He bent closer. “Ah. With wooden splints, as I thought. I normally use heated metal; it’s far more effective, as I’m sure you’ll find out later. I will be interested in your views on the subject, actually.”
Cashel grunted. He’d known, of course, that he was in deep trouble, had even known he’d be killed. But now he knew just how bad it would be, and the thought was not pleasant. Still, as long as he was going to die in bitter agony, why not get some satisfaction. “You’re going to bugger me too, I expect. I hear that’s what mages do best.”
Farrick laughed. “Funny! No, actually, that was not one of my intended activities. But since you bring it up, there are a number of things I can put into your asshole. Since you’re interested, I’ll make sure to add that to the menu.” The door opened again, and then the mage withdrew to allow Gitsey, her face inscrutable, to come forward with a basin of steaming water. “As I say, rest for now, Cashel. I’ll return soon. My associate can keep you and Gitsey company in the meantime,” and for the first time Cashel became aware there was another person in the room.
He wondered at once why he hadn’t seen that the boy was a woman; it was so obvious now. She squatted on Gitsey’s little barrel, perched oddly with both knees up around her head and her thin arms dangling in between. They held a small antler-handled knife, very similar to the one Alorin liked to use, double-bladed and with a small guard. She looked at Cashel the way a man looks at a rock or a piece of wood: he was nothing to her but part of the landscape. And after he was dead, bled cold and pale on the dirt floor, she’d look at him in exactly the same way.
He shivered, then closed his eyes. It seemed easier that way. Instead he listened; the dry rasp of Gitsey’s towels, the gentle chinking noise as Langmyre tapped her blade against her barrel, the snuffling of some sort of rodent beyond the boarded-up window.
Five
Upstairs, Lady Wennowes was anxious. She thought she could guess what might be happening in the cellar, and although she was not herself a squeamish person, there had never been a time in her life that she’d seen a man killed while his cum still sloshed around inside her. It made her unexpectedly nervous about the entire affair, and she sat in the salon and looked out the window pensively.
The street was a fine one, which was why Lord Wennowes had chosen it; just busy enough, with the Amphitheatre nearby and folk passing, but at the same time not too crowded either. A family strolled on the far side of the street, the mother and father swinging the child by her arms between them while her big brother raced ahead, pull
ing a toy horse. A sparrow flitted from tree to tree, then sprang calmly to her windowsill; she knuckled the glass, and the startled thing sprang away with an awkward chirp and a flying gobbet of slimy white shit that, falling, struck the shoulder of a woman walking past on business of her own, an ugly older woman of middling height with a limp. The sight chilled Wennowes; she could not help but picture herself, twenty years hence, ugly and lame and getting shat upon by sparrows.
It was a sobering thought.
Outside, the limping hag rounded the corner onto Wordwrights’ Street and dragged herself behind a high wall covered with juniper, through a small gate whose lock had been picked open, and into the neighbor’s garden shed where Poildrin Franx waited. She quit limping once she cleared the threshold, shaking her foot irritably. “I hate limping,” Alorin declared, “and a bird attacked me.”
“Try sitting here and concentrating on maintaining a deception charm strong enough to make you look ugly.” The mage blinked, then sat down as if dizzy. The charm fell from the valkyrie, her face melting away to leave her usual lean, fierce grimace.
“Thanks for the compliment, I’m sure,” she muttered, scraping distractedly at her shoulder. “There’s no real activity at the house, Poildrin. If the owl is right that the sounds from the basement continued all night, then the men who made them may well be sleeping.” She took a swallow of wine from a skin. “Certainly I heard nothing.”
“Certainly you’re not an owl.” The mage frowned, pondering.
“Fuck off.” Alorin took a seat behind a compost bin. “There was a woman in the window, watching me; I’m sure it was the Lady Wennowes.” She looked around. “Whose shed is this, anyway?”
“I’m staggered,” the mage replied shortly, “that you would think I would know the answer to that.” He shook his head. “It’s an unoccupied shed in close proximity to our target. That’s all that matters.” He picked his nose. “Drinn should be back shortly, and then we'll make our plans. It sounds like Cashel’s likely still to be in the basement.”
