by Devin Hanson
“The Guild has the opportunity to rise to the heights of the ancients once more. There is more than enough fame and honor to go around, my friend, remember that. We weren’t born with the luck of being a Speaker, but we were born with the luck to live at the same time as one.” Hobbarth coughed again and forced a wan smile. “You more than me, I suppose. Burn this illness.”
“Jacob, if there is anything I can do for you, name it.”
The Guild Master’s eyes locked onto Kilpatri’s face and his eyes brightened for a moment. “The Speaker. I have not yet met him. I would dearly like to meet him, before my time comes.”
“He is out of the city. Nobody knows where or how long he will be gone.” Kilpatri shook his head. “I’ll send for him, as soon as he returns.”
“Ah.” Hobbarth sighed. “Pity.”
Then he died.
Chapter 10
Hunting Incantors
Iria threw herself into a roll as lightning cracked into Danny, knocking him clean off his feet and slamming him into the wall. He collapsed to the ground with steam rising from his soaked poncho. Iria caught a glimpse of an Incantor crouched in the shadow of the alley opposite from where Danny lay, then the world was spinning around.
Rain hammered down, making the cobbles slick and Iria’s fingers numb. She came out of her roll running for the wall closest to the alley. She had to close the distance, but she also had to prevent the Incantor from seeing her or she would end up like Danny. Lightning snarled against the cobbles, scant feet behind Iria, chewing a long row of them into gravel.
Half blinded, Iria reached the wall and smacked into it. She threw off the poncho and yanked her curved daggers from their sheathes. Briefly, she wished she had her sand mask to help keep the rain from her eyes.
Hunting criminal alchemists in Nas Shahr had always been a drawn-out ordeal. Days of watching and waiting, always careful that the alchemist never caught sight of her. Only when she knew the alchemist’s routines as well as the backs of her hands did she meticulously plan her assault. Dozens of opportunities to end the hunt early were passed up for the surety and safety of the eventual infallible plan.
When she did finally strike against the alchemist, it was carefully planned and executed, with no possible chance of the alchemist being aware of her presence until her blade was already between his ribs. There were times, of course, when even the best plans went awry. Of the seven alchemists she had killed following her duties as balai, only one had seen her coming, and the last one had been hunting her.
Combat against alchemists was simple: if you allowed them a chance to use their art against you, you were dead. If there was a trick to it, it was that alchemists never ever expected you to close the distance.
Iria came around the corner of the alley at the same time as the Incantor. He was a skinny man, taller than Iria by head and shoulders. His sodden cloak clung to his arms as he raised them, lips already twisting around runic sayings. He eyes snapped wide in surprise as he saw Iria was right in front of him.
In one hand he held a fragment of bone, the other was pointing where he had expected Iria to be.
Before he could react, Iria was inside his reach, daggers ripping through his cloak and into his flesh. All of her attention was focused on that fragment of bone and she slashed at the hand holding it. The Incantor cried out and stumbled back, his free hand gripping his belly where Iria had sunk one blade in.
All her life, Iria had fought against people taller than herself. As the Incantor stepped back, she hooked a foot behind his knee and shoved hard against his chest, throwing her own weight against his and riding him down to the ground. The hand clutching the bone shard flew open and the brown sliver skittered off across the cobbles.
The wind was driven from the Incantor with a gasp and he struggled against Iria’s weight, his mouth trying to form words, but with no air available to give them voice. She had lost one of her daggers, tangled up in the weight of the man’s cloak, her other blade was driven between the wrist bones of the hand that had held the flux.
She didn’t have time to draw another weapon. With a cry, she drove the heel of her hand up into the Incantor’s chin, snapping his head back against the cobbles and slamming his mouth shut with a click of teeth. The man’s eyes rolled and he sagged against Iria’s grip.
Panting with the combination of fear and rage that gripped her, Iria struggled to her feet and kicked the Incantor in the side of the head. There was a dull crack and the strength puddled out of him. She planted a boot against his impaled hand and ripped her blade free, then reversed her grip and drove it deep into the Incantor’s heart. Just to make sure he was dead, she stabbed him twice more, twisting the blade viciously to do the most damage possible, and then finally slit his throat. The carotid arteries drained blood, but there were no pumping surges.
The man was dead. No Incantor powers would heal those wounds.
A glance up the street showed the other Incantor had yet to return, but she could hear the sound of booted feet approaching at a run. Iria looked around for a place to hide and found nothing. She jumped into the alley and found a pile of barrels stacked against one of the walls. With a running start, Iria vaulted to the top of the stack and jumped for the lip of the roof. The architecture of Salian buildings aided her. The roof was roughly tiled, the clay shingles embedded with gravel and stones that gave her solid purchase despite the rain.
With a surge of effort, Iria swung herself up onto the roof and rolled out of sight of the street. She hadn’t been a moment too soon. Running footsteps skidded to a halt outside the alley.
“Tiny gods, Emery!”
Iria found herself smiling, a tight and predatory barring of her teeth.
“Oh, gods, he’s dead. What happened,” the man groaned, “why didn’t you wait for me?”
Moving slowly on hands and knees, Iria crept to the edge of the roof and peered over. The second Incantor was kneeling over the mutilated body of Emery. The tile beneath her hand shifted under her weight slightly. It was loose.
There were times for planning, and times for acting. Without thinking, Iria gathered herself and leapt from the roof onto the back of the unsuspecting Incantor, the tile clutched in both hands. She landed on the Incantor’s back, but not before bringing the tile smashing down with the entirety of her weight and the momentum of her fall backing it up.
The Incantor was hammered into the cobbles by the impact, and Iria rolled to her feet, dagger at the ready, but the Incantor lay still. With one foot, she rolled the man onto his back and knelt to check his pulse. It was there in his throat, thready, but stable. For a long moment, she held the dagger to the man’s throat then a groan snapped her head around.
Danny rolled over onto his back and moaned, clutching his head. The Incantor momentarily forgotten, Iria stared at him in shock. She was sure he had been killed. A glance down at the Incantor verified that the man was thoroughly unconscious and was likely to stay that way for a long time.
She ran over and helped Danny sit up. “Empty night, Danny, you are very lucky to be alive,” she said, shaking her head.
“Tiny gods, Iria, my head. What happened?”
“An ambush. The Inc– ah, the cultist attacked you from the alley. How are you feeling now? Do you think you can walk?”
Danny groaned but with Iria’s help struggled to his feet. “They escaped, then? Lucky they didn’t see you.”
Iria laughed and pointed across the street to the crumpled forms. At this distance, they looked like a rubbish pile in the street.
“What, is that them?” Danny looked at Iria with something approaching awe. “You killed them both?”
“Only one. The other is very much unconscious, though. I hope you are feeling strong, because you are going to carry him back to the Dancing Horse.”
Andrew woke to the sound of footsteps pounding up the stairs. He sat up, one hand going to the small dragon scale hung about his neck. Jules was asleep beside him, her brown hair in a messy
halo about her head. He thought she was beautiful, even so.
Taking care not to disturb her, Andrew slid from under the covers and padded to the door on bare feet. He listened, heard the terse challenge of the warden outside his door and the response, words in Maari, tight with excitement. Spending as much time as he did with the wardens, Andrew’s Maari had improved to something near fluency. He didn’t catch everything through the door, but he heard enough.
Iria had returned with a captive.
Jules would want to be present for this. He padded back to the bed and gently shook her awake.
“What is it?” she asked blearily. She focused on Andrew, saw he was out of the bed and drowsiness dropped away. She sat up the rest of the way, one hand going to her own dragon scale in a gesture mirroring Andrew’s own. Neither of them went anywhere without those scales about their necks, a habit that had saved their lives in Nas Shahr.
“Iria’s returned,” Andrew supplied, dragging on his pants. “She captured someone. I figured you’d want to be there when he wakes.”
“You figured right.” Jules started reaching for the servant garments she had been masquerading in, then changed her mind and went to her pack, where she produced pants and light leather armor, along with her runed blade and heavy revolver.
A knock sounded at the door and Andrew went to answer it, still tucking his shirt in.
“You know?” the warden asked surprised.
“I heard someone coming up the stairs,” Andrew answered. “Tell Iria we’ll be down in a minute. Where is the hostage being held?”
“The private rooms downstairs.”
“Did someone send for the constable?”
“Not yet,” the warden said doubtfully. “These wetlanders might object to our methods.”
“It’s his city,” Jules called from inside the room.
Andrew shrugged. “You heard the lady.”
“I’ll have a runner sent.”
“Good man.” Andrew shut the door and finished getting dressed. Following Jules’s lead, he buckled his own sword on and made sure his cloak wouldn’t get in the way if he had to draw it. He had never felt comfortable wearing armor, and if things grew so dire that armor came into use, it was unlikely a bit of leather would make a difference.
Down in the common room, the full force of the wardens was gathered, minus Iria, along with a handful of the constable’s men.
When Andrew came down the stairs, one of the lawmen shouted, “If you have one of these murderers, we want justice! My sister was killed by these burning dogs!”
Ugly muttering from the lawmen rose in agreement. Several of the wardens shifted themselves so they were between the lawmen and Andrew, hands on the hilts of their weapons. Andrew saw the deadly calm among the wardens and knew that one wrong move from these men, who were rightfully furious, would plunge the room into bloodshed.
“Gentlemen!” Andrew called, raising one hand. “I sent for the constable. We are civilized men, aren’t we? There will be no lynch mob tonight.”
“Who’re you to say what we are?” a lawman snarled. “You and your tame Maar. What do you know what it’s been like here the last few weeks?”
“We don’t even know what we have,” Andrew said, making calming gestures with his hands. “We don’t even know if we captured one of the murderers.”
“Speaker,” Adnan Hakhim said quietly after pushing to his side, “We recovered the body of the other one that Iria slew. We have it outside. I did not think it wise to bring a body among these men in their state.”
“You thought right,” Andrew growled. “Who knows how this lot would react. Keep it out of sight, but I would like to examine it myself.”
“I will have it brought around the back.” Hakhim turned and left.
Andrew turned to face the lawmen once more. He didn’t have time for these men, despite the sympathy he felt for them. “Okay, listen up. I am going to say this once, and once only. The captive is a valued source of information. You may not have him for your vengeance.”
“You wouldn’t–”
“Be silent!” Andrew shouted, and glared at the lawman until he shrank back. “Do not think for a moment any man or woman found related to the murders will be shown an ounce of leniency. But anyone who tries to kill the captive without the permission of the constable will be dealt with as a common criminal. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”
Grumbled assent, with sidelong glances at the wardens. The lawmen seized up the Maar and saw they were outnumbered two to one.
“Good. Now clear out of here. Go home to your families and see that they are safe.”
The lawmen grumbled, but moved toward the door. Andrew felt Jules step up next to him and place a hand on his arm.
“Thanks for the support,” he said sarcastically then shook his head with a sigh. “Sorry.”
“You handled it just fine. There wasn’t much I could do there without throwing my name around.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry. This mission of ours is starting to seem like such a bad idea.”
“Come on. I want to see what Iria’s brought us.”
Andrew entered the private dining room with Jules, nodding to the two wardens who stood watch outside the door. “Adnan brought a present around back. Have it brought to us here. It should be fine now.”
Inside the room, Iria had pushed the long dining table against one wall. The chairs were stacked in a corner, with one planted in the middle of the room. The unconscious Incantor was lashed to the chair, a gag shoved into his mouth.
“I hear you’ve been having all the excitement,” Jules greeted Iria.
“You could say that,” the warden returned with a pained smile. “We got lucky, Danny and I.” She nodded at the young lawman sitting with his back to the wall.
At mention of his name, Danny looked up and Andrew saw the seared burn mark on his leather poncho. “You helped Iria capture him?” he asked.
Danny shook his head. “I didn’t even see them. Iria did all the work.”
“Why don’t you go and get some food from the kitchen, Danny,” Jules said gently. “I’m sure the cooks are up now with all the commotion. Bring us back something hot to drink when you’re finished. No rush.”
The young lawman nodded and picked himself painfully up off the floor. “If you’re sure you don’t need me here?”
Iria patted him on the shoulder. “We can take it from here, Danny. You did well tonight.”
Danny blushed and mumbled something inaudible before slipping out the door.
“Incantor?” Andrew asked as soon as the door swung shut behind him.
“He was using a flux,” Iria said, tossing Andrew the bone fragment.
He caught it and turned it over in his hands. It was eight inches long, curving slightly, and broken at both ends. A section of a rib, perhaps. The surface was covered in minute whorls and jagged lines, intersecting in a tightly knit pattern that varied from place to place. The marks were runes, their existence on the bone, flesh and scales of dragons were the driving force behind the dragons’ abilities to defy the laws of nature.
Andrew passed the fragment to Jules without comment. She had made a living collecting such things and would know more about it than he did. “If he was using a flux, he might not be an Incantor. Did you find any rune tattoos on him?”
“I have not looked,” Iria admitted. “We arrived just minutes ago.”
A knock sounded at the door, then Adnan entered carrying the body of the dead Incantor.
“Put it on the table,” Andrew suggested, and then stepped up to inspect the corpse.
Andrew had seen more of death in the last year of his life than he had ever expected to. The body on the table tightened his throat, but the nausea that threatened subsided after a few seconds. As bodies went, this one was relatively unremarkable, excepting the gruesome chest wounds and gaping throat. Rain had rinsed the worst of the blood away, leaving the damage almost clean.
“Weren’t
taking any chances, were you,” Jules commented, looking over Andrew’s shoulder.
“No.” Iria said flatly. “I was in a hurry.”
“Help me check him for runes,” Andrew said.
With Jules’s help, he cut the man’s clothing free from his chest and legs until they had the body down to his small clothes. Besides the knife wounds, he didn’t have a mark on him.
“He’s not an Incantor,” Andrew said.
“He nearly killed Danny with a blast of lightning,” Iria said. “And almost got me with it too.”
“He’s just an alchemist, though,” Jules confirmed. “A bad egg, undeniably, but no Incantor.”
Iria sighed and leaned her head back against the wall. “Empty night. I was hoping to get one right away.”
“Let’s check the other one,” Andrew suggested. “If he’s not an Incantor, it will be safe to question him so long as he doesn’t have a flux.”
“I checked,” Iria shook her head. “He carries no flux.”
After a minute, they had the unconscious man down to his smallclothes as well and once again found him to be free of the Ska rune tattoo that granted a human the ability to store vitae like a dragon did.
“Did this one use alchemy?” Andrew asked.
“I did not give him the chance,” Iria said.
“Well, let’s wake him up then,” Jules said.
“Be gentle,” Iria suggested. “His skull might be on a little loose after I broke a roof tile over his head.”
Andrew didn’t find himself in the mood for gentle, so left to get Iria’s satchel with her medical kit. On the way back down the stairs, he saw the constable approaching and the wardens moving to intercept him.
“Good evening, Constable,” Andrew called, waving to the wardens to let him pass. “You made good time.”
“I just heard the report from my men,” Ryan said angrily. “None were able to follow their quarry through the streets in the rain. This was our only chance to track them! Now we will have to start the search all over again.”
