NIghtbird (Empire of Masks Book 2)

by Brock Deskins

  Cleary hustled down the stairs, willing himself not to betray any sign of the stinging wounds on his hip and shoulder. He opened a liquor cabinet on one side of the room, poured two glasses, and delivered them into the hands of his master and his distinguished guest.

  “Will there be anything else, sah?” Cleary asked.

  “Leave us the bottle. I do not expect to require your services anymore this evening.”

  “Very well, sah,” Cleary said with a small bow.

  He went to the cabinet, returned with the bottle of whiskey, and set it on the table between the two men.

  “If there is nothing further, sah.”

  Conner flicked his hand. “No, that will be all, Mr. Cleary.”

  Bertram stood up and extended his hand. “It was good meeting you, Mr. Cleary.”

  Cleary paused for just a moment and accepted the offer; a slight tightening of his jaw muscles was the only indication of the pain he felt in his shoulder. Bertram’s eyes flicked from the man’s face to his bare hand. Cleary tried to release his grip but the inquisitor held it fast. Conner noted Bertram’s studious gaze.

  “Mr. Cleary, it appears in your haste to attend me that you forgot to don your gloves.”

  “I did, sah. I do apologize for my negligence.”

  “It’s fine, but do try harder in the future. Image is everything, after all.”

  Bertram released his grip on the servant’s hand. “Are you well, Mr. Cleary?”

  “Yes, sah. Just chagrined at my absentmindedness.”

  “You seem to be favoring your shoulder a bit.”

  Cleary’s face flushed. “The master had me rearranging his bedroom furniture today and I fear I strained myself. I am not as young as I once was.”

  Bertram smiled. “It appears to be the night for such a strenuous activity. The owner of the home I previously visited had been doing much of the same thing before I arrived.”

  Cleary flicked his eyes toward Conner. “It may soon be time for Sah Conner to hire a younger, more able-bodied man to do the heavy lifting chores.”

  Conner laid a hand on his man’s uninjured shoulder. “I am confident of your abilities, Mr. Cleary. Good night.”

  “Good night, sah.” He turned to Bertram and bowed. “Sah.”

  Bertram watched the man leave, taking particular interest in his gait. “He seems an able man.”

  Conner nodded. “Very able. I could not get on without him.”

  “He has some strong hands for a butler. Calloused as well. What exactly does he do for you?”

  “All manner of tasks. He is far more than a mere butler. He is my house steward and has as much a hand at managing it, and my business, as I do. He is also my valet, driver, and if needs be, bodyguard.”

  “So he can fight?”

  “He is proficient, but surely you did not come here to discuss my valet?”

  Bertram returned to his seat, took a sip of whiskey, and tipped his glass in recognition of its quality. “No, in fact I believe we were speaking of you.”

  Conner took a large gulp from his own glass. “Ah, yes, my reputation.”

  “You were an excellent inquisitor in your time. Your rate of arrests and convictions is very impressive.”

  Conner set his glass down and stared past Bertram to a spot on the wall. “That was a long time ago.”

  Bertram’s face grew somber, matching his host’s expression. “I read about what happened to you and your family. I am deeply sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you, but I don’t think you came here to offer condolences for a tragedy fifteen years past.”

  “No. I mentioned that I tracked a man here, or at least to this area, from a situation that occurred near Lowgate.”

  “I have been here all night.” Conner tapped his cane on the floor. “Not that I get around much these days.”

  “No, of course not. What about your man Mr. Cleary?”

  Conner chuckled into his glass before sipping. “My valet?”

  “You did say he is a capable man.”

  “Capable of running my house and pressing my suits, but not…what exactly do you think he’s done?”

  “I don’t think anything, sah. It’s just that, when I lost the trail and saw where I was, a thought occurred to me. When I took over the job of chief inquisitor, I took the time to review many files. I found yours to be of particular interest, and I don’t mean just your arrests.”

  “What else is there?”

  “A pattern emerged to me.”

  Conner refilled his and his guest’s tumbler. “What sort of pattern?”

  “I noted that after your…retirement, certain people the courts failed to convict despite some rather convincing evidence began succumbing to a host of bad luck. Over the past fifteen years, nearly a score of men who clearly engaged in illicit dealings came to violent ends.”

  Conner shrugged. “Such is often the fate of those who choose to live that kind of life.”

  Bertram nodded as he sipped his whiskey. “Very true, but these were not battles with rival gangs. Their deaths were frequently, almost exclusively, well-executed assassinations. There are also dozens more who were brought back before the courts when key evidence mysteriously surfaced, and in the times that the courts failed once again to convict the clearly guilty, they too often perished, or something happened to destroy their businesses and livelihood.”

  “You still have not told me what you think my part in this is.”

  It was Bertram’s turn to shrug. “I never said you had a part in it. I just wanted to get your opinion as an inquisitor.”

  “I really do not have an opinion on the matter. As you know, I have not been an inquisitor for a long time. I run a high-class brothel, nothing more.”

  “Fair enough. You do know Fred Switzer, do you not?”

  “I know of him. He is a parasite of a man who deals in poison and has an eye on achieving far more power in the city than his intelligence and skill can accommodate.”

  Bertram grinned. “Spoken like a true inquisitor.”

  “Old habits die hard.”

  “They do indeed. It is a shame you were forced to retire. I have an inkling there are greater things afoot that do not bode well for my city, and I could use a man with your skill.”

  “A good deal of information does reach my ears. It is one of the perks of owning such an establishment. I would be happy to share anything I learn that might aid you in your investigations.”

  “Glad to hear it. I suspected that you had not entirely turned your back upon your true calling.”

  Conner smiled. “Well, I do come from a very long line of inquisitors, harkening back to the rebellion.”

  Bertram sputtered into his drink. “You cannot possibly be referring to Quinlan Rey?”

  “You know of him?”

  “My grandsire, Jareen, all of my forefathers, kept meticulous journals. Even Tyler the Blind. Especially him, actually. Jareen must not have known he had a family. He certainly made no mention of it.”

  “He didn’t, not until after the rebellion.”

  Bertram’s brows snapped together. “That’s not possible. Jareen stated that Quinlan died in the first true ship-to-ship battle of the war.”

  “He survived, and impossibly made it all the way back to Velaroth, through the desert, and on foot no less.”

  Bertram shook his head and let out a long breath. “Amazing. Jareen wrote of his tenacity.”

  “I imagine Jareen recounted many things regarding my great-great-grandfather. Many of them not so flattering.”

  Bertram tipped his glass toward his host. “Actually, Jareen often referred to him with a great deal of respect, at least from what I was able to glean from his writings. Did Quinlan keep any notes from that time?”

  “He did. He was a chief inquisitor, after all. I have all of his journals and even many of his case files. I studied them extensively before making my bid for inquisitor.”

  “I would love to read them sometime.�
��

  “Perhaps an exchange?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Conner leaned back in his chair. “The fates are an ironic bunch. Who would have imagined the heirs of Quinlan Rey and Jareen Velarius would be sitting in a brothel sharing drinks? We just need a descendant of Oberon Victore to magically appear and the circle would be complete.”

  Bertram smiled and shrugged. “It could happen.”

  “I beg pardon?”

  “Auberon Victore had an illegitimate child with a slave girl. Jareen hid her and her unborn baby deep in the city. If she and her offspring survived, he or she might yet show up.”

  Conner slumped into his chair, flabbergasted by the information. “I guess that only leaves one question unanswered.”

  “And that is?”

  Conner smiled into his glass. “Which of us will destroy the world this time?”

  CHAPTER 18

  “Russel!”

  Russel opened his eyes and found himself aboard an airship. The few crewmen on duty at the late hour were sitting about or tending lines. None paid any attention to him or the ethereal girl calling out his name.

  “Russel!” Ashlea cried out again.

  Ashlea appeared as she always did in Russel’s dreams. She was around the same age as he was, perhaps a year or two older. She wore a fanciful dress of a design he had never seen before. Her body glowed with bluish light and was incorporeal. Russel could see through her as if she were a ghost. Perhaps she was.

  Russel’s fingers began to twitch out of habit, but his brain remembered where he was and gave voice to his words. “What’s wrong?”

  “He’s here, on the ship, and he knows I’m here!” Ghostly tears streamed down Ashlea’s face.

  “Who’s here?”

  “Death. Death has come to Eidolan and he wants me. I can feel his desire even through the box. I tried to hide when I realized he was here, but I was too late and he discovered my presence. You have to save me, Russel. Only you can do it. I’m meant for you. If he gets me, we are all doomed.”

  “Where are you? Who is he?”

  “I am coming to you. I think the airship will arrive in Velaroth in a few days, but I am to be delivered into the hands of another. You cannot let either of them have me. You must save me.”

  “Who is trying to get you?” Russel asked again.

  “Creatures of death. One is on this ship. The other is in your city and has been there for a long time. You mustn’t let them get me. The war is already here and you have to be ready.”

  “I’m trying, but there is still so much I need to do.”

  “Please, Russel, you must work faster. You must get what you need no matter what. If you fail, we will all die or suffer a fate worse than death.”

  Russel bobbed his head. “I’ll try. I’m going out tonight for things I need.”

  “Hurry, Russel.” Ashlea’s head snapped to the side. “He’s coming. I have to go! Run!”

  “Who—?” Russel started to ask, but Ashlea vanished as a man appeared on deck. A wave of icy dread washed over him as the man approached. He appeared solid like any of the other men he saw on the ship, but a black shadow hung over him, dark and ghostly, similar to Ashlea’s form. In that shadow, Russel made out the image of another man with deathly white skin and malice in his eyes. He looked straight at Russel and cast him a curious but murderous look.

  “Who are you?” He lunged forward, his skeletal hand outstretched and reaching for Russel’s throat. “Speak!”

  Russel bolted to a sitting position on his bed with a gasp, sweat streaming from every pore. He swallowed the lump in his throat and stood. He had work to do. Very important work.

  He donned his usual garb, slipped on a pair of thick but tough worm-skin gloves, and attached several tools to his belt. Strapping on his leather helmet and adjusting the lenses attached to it so he could see properly, Russel climbed out of his “kingdom” and into his airship.

  Peering into the rooms as he crept past, he noted that Kiera was gone, as usual, and that Wesley was sleeping soundly, the scent of aether weed smoke still heavy in the air, as usual.

  The gendarme and navy had opened the worm site to the public earlier in the day, but Russel disliked going out with so many people around, so he limited his rare ventures outside his precious airship during the night. Only the bravest or most foolhardy went into a worm tunnel at night, so he hoped to have the place mostly to himself.

  Russel’s fingers danced in front of his chest as they always did. Even Wesley, who knew him better than anyone, thought the action simply part of his condition, a spastic effect created by whatever had caused the damage to his brain. They could not be more wrong.

  Early in his life, Russel found the sign language the city’s mute used to be far too limited to convey the flood of information constantly flowing through his head. The theories and concepts that raced about in his mind screamed to be released in some manner or he risked going completely mad. Unable to write fast enough to liberate them, Russel invented a new sign language only he understood. It was sufficient to give his thoughts a voice, even if it merely cast them to the wind.

  So wrapped up in his own mind was he, Russel did not notice the three forms step out of the shadows in front of and behind him until he bumped into one of the larger ones. He looked up into Iggy’s smiling face and blinked with an emotionless countenance.

  “Where you going, retard?” Iggy asked.

  Langdon stepped forward and pushed Iggy away with his hand. “Come on, Iggy, we can be better than that.” He looked at Russel, who took a step away and simply stared at the three, and spoke slowly. “Russel, isn’t it? Where’s Kiera? Is she still home or did she manage to sneak past us?”

  Russel’s fingers danced in response.

  Langdon looked to his two cohorts. “What’d he say?”

  The twins shrugged and Micah said, “I don’t know. I don’t speak retard.”

  Langdon frowned. “Micah, seriously. We aren’t animals. Let’s just all stay civil. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Russel?”

  Russel nodded.

  “See, we treat each other with respect and there’s no trouble. Russel, can you tell us where Kiera is?”

  Russel shrugged.

  “So she’s not home?” Langdon sighed when the younger boy shook his head. “That’s not good, Russel. Kiera owes people money. Rafferty wants us to make sure she doesn’t pay it back. If she’s out doing a job and we missed her, then you’re going to have to pay. Do you understand?”

  Russel just stood and blinked, his expression vacant.

  “I don’t think he understands,” Iggy said.

  Langdon sighed again. “It’s nothing personal, Russel, but I’ve been given a job and I have to do it or I’ll get in trouble. Iggy, see what he’s got and take anything of value.”

  Iggy stepped toward Russel with a smile of anticipation on his face. Russel reached for a rod the length of his forearm tucked inside his vest and calmly raised it without showing the slightest bit of concern for the impending mugging.

  “Aw, are you going to poke me with that sti—?”

  Russel touched the end of the rod to Iggy’s stomach as he advanced. A dull hum filled the air like a bass note plucked on an enormous harp. Iggy’s eyes crossed and his legs buckled. He held his stomach and wailed through wracking, vomitus expulsions.

  Micah took a step forward and stopped as if he had hit a wall. His hands flew up to cover his nose and cried out, “Oh, gods, he’s shitting himself too! What in the Tormented Plane have you done to him?”

  Russel simply twirled the end of his rod in the air.

  “I think I’m dying!” Iggy cried.

  Langdon’s wide eyes flashed from Iggy to Russel. “Is he going to die?”

  Russel shook his head.

  “He says you’re not going to die.”

  “Then kill me!” Iggy begged between bouts of vomiting.

  “Hold on, Iggy, we’ll get this sorted.”

&
nbsp; “I can’t hold on—” he vomited loudly as he lay in an expanding pool of his own waste “—to anything!”

  Micah looked at Langdon. “There’s still two of us. We can get him.”

  “Are you willing to take one of those shots? Because I sure as heck am not.”

  “Ah, right.” He looked at Iggy and frowned. “Sorry, brother. We’re kind of at a stalemate here.”

  Langdon locked eyes with Russel and smiled. “Russel, I think we got off on the wrong foot here, and I take full responsibility for that.” He glanced at the rod in the boy’s hand and noted the techno-scribings and small piece of mage glass set in the end. “Why, you aren’t a retard at all, are you? I bet you’re the smartest guy around these parts.”

  Russel smiled and stood up straight.

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “Thought what, boss?” Micah asked.

  “Russel here is an unregistered techno-arcanist.”

  Micah’s eyes went wide and stared at the unimposing youth standing before him. “No way!”

  “Yep. Do you know what this means?”

  “Rafferty would reward us for bringing him in?”

  Langdon shook his head. “Not a chance.” He stepped back when Iggy’s pool of bodily fluids expanded near his feet. “You see, Micah, success is all about making contacts and gathering resources. Sure, we could turn him over to Rafferty, or even the gendarme, and get a nice reward, but that’s thinking small, short term. You have to look at the long game. Do you really want to be a toady for Rafferty all your life?”

  Micah shook his head. “Nope.”

  “With a friend like Russel in our list of resources, we could one day break away from Rafferty and be our own bosses.”

  “So, I could be your toady…”

  “Isn’t that better?”

  The left side of Micah’s top lip curled up. “A little, I guess.”

  Langdon laid a hand on his cohort’s shoulder. “You guys are not mere toadies to me, you’re my friends. Look, being a good leader requires a certain mindset, a way of thinking that you and Iggy don’t possess. You are the foundation upon which great men stand.”

  “So, we’re the floor beneath your feet. That doesn’t sound much better to me.”