The Enemy Within

by Christie Golden

  Rozalia took a sip of wine and stretched languorously. Her scanty robes revealed more than they concealed. “I like going into town now,” she said. “They’re afraid of me. They always have been, these Kantorans. But now, they don’t dare spit on me.”

  “Of course not,” responded Malken. “Your scimitar is your chaperon, your priestess robes your armor.”

  She watched him eat. His manners, or rather lack of them, no longer offended her. As she spent more time with him, watching him manipulate people, weaving this fantasy about Sehkmaa, she grew to admire him. He was unquestionably the most powerful man she had ever known—if, indeed, he was something as ordinary as a mere man. She had never yet seen him with his mask off, and the face she created for him in her mind was handsome and dashing. Malken excited something deep inside her. He made her want him, want to be more like him, and the sensation grew with each hour in his presence. She gazed at him now with slitted dark eyes. Her breath was coming quickly, and her heart was beating rapidly. One slim hand reached to touch his as he rested it on the table.

  He jerked it back, and the gaze he shot her from beneath the mask was for an instant full of anger. Fear replaced desire in Rozalia’s heart. She had seen the sort of things this man could and would do, and while she enjoyed watching them happen to others she had no desire to be Malken’s latest victim.

  Malken’s voice was tense and uncomfortable. “Let us keep our relationship as it is, my dear. We can both benefit.” Absently, he lifted the dagger from his plate and thumbed the point gently. “Besides, I don’t think you’d care for my sort of—sport.” He returned to eating, cramming hunks of bread into his fish’s maw.

  One of the servants approached hesitantly. His mouth full, Malken gestured impatiently for him to speak. “Lord, the dockmaster is here,” he said timidly.

  Malken nodded vigorously, pleased, and swallowed. “Ah, yes, he was invited to join us. Bring him in.”

  The man who was brought in a moment later did not look like an invited guest. His hands were tied behind his back, and his face bled from several cuts. One eye was swollen almost shut. The other eye took in the surroundings, including the chained great cats, with only a hint of fear. Malken rose.

  “Good evening, Hollin Turndach. Or should I call you by your title? I’ve dressed to honor you, you see,” he said, indicating his fish mask.

  Turndach glared up at him. “Are you some kind of damned police?” he snarled. “I’ve done noth—”

  Malken raised a hand. “There are no police here. There is only me—Malken. Let us get to the point, shall we? I know who you are, and I know what you do.”

  The dockmaster glared at him fiercely. “I’m but the tip of the iceberg,” he warned. “You harm me and—”

  “And what?” snapped Malken. “No one knows you’re gone, dock lord! And no one knows of me unless I want them to know. When your body is found floating in the river tomorrow, they won’t have the slightest clue!” He slammed his fist down on the table, upsetting his goblet of wine. The liquid dripped off the table, forming a spot of deeper crimson on the thick carpeting. With an effort, Malken brought himself under control.

  “It is truly not my wish that this happen. Your organization has done very well for itself, and I have no desire to topple you from your perch as king of the River Quarter. By all means, continue your smuggling and small-scale piracy. I will not interfere with it.”

  Turndach was clearly still antagonistic. “You obviously haven’t ventured beyond the borders recently. My days of trading—honest or not—are over.”

  Malken froze in the act of bringing a thickly buttered slice of bread to his mouth. “Dear, dear,” he mused. Rozalia tensed. By now, she could recognize Malken’s anger, even when he cloaked it. “That won’t do at all.”

  “No sane man would travel anymore. I don’t know what’s happened, but there are monsters out there where there used to be men!” He shuddered. “It’s as if the countries we knew just weren’t there anymore.”

  “Surely you have met some people who would be willing to trade.”

  Turndach stared. “Didn’t you hear what I said, man? The countries on our borders are different!”

  Malken sat very still. Slowly, he raised a gloved hand to his fish mask. He caressed the gleaming metal hook that protruded from the gaping mouth. “This is you, my friend. You’re on a hook. My hook. You can either swim away free or be my supper tonight. I don’t care who is or isn’t on our borders as long as you can trade with them.”

  Clearly, the dockmaster was apprehensive about the so-called “new countries.” But the danger before him was more immediate. “Suppose I do go back to my trading,” he said cautiously. “If you want me to continue, why have you abducted me?”

  “That’s such a harsh word. Let’s call it—persuaded you to visit, shall we? But you have a right to know.” He rose, placing his hands on the table, and leaned forward into Turndach’s bearded face. “I want a quarter of everything your organization makes.”

  Turndach gaped for an instant, then began to laugh. “What makes you think for even a minute that I—”

  “I have the means of persuading you.” Malken indicated the great cats, who rose as one and turned their eyes upon the dockmaster.

  Turndach paled, but his voice was still defiant. “You may kill me, but you can’t send those hellcats into the quarter. You’d draw attention to yourself then, wouldn’t you, you bast—” He yelped as a small orange tabby scratched his leg. He glanced down at the bleeding scratch, and began to laugh.

  “You think I’m scared of a little cat like that?”

  “Indeed I do. I think in about ten seconds you’ll be quite terrified.”

  Faced with Malken’s confidence, the dockmaster began to look uncertain. He glanced down at his leg, and saw the swelling occur almost before his eyes. He winced with the pain and could not stifle a groan as his leg seemed to burn with an unceasing fire. Boils erupted on his face, bursting and dripping pus down his cheek. The groan turned into a shriek of pain as the bones in his spine began to twist, and Turndach started to stoop as a hump formed in his back.

  With a wicked smile, Rozalia delicately withdrew a vial that had been tucked between her breasts. She waved it in the air, teasingly, then closed her painted nails tightly over it.

  “You’ve heard of the Vistana way with magic and herbs, haven’t you, Turndach? My dear Rozalia is a master of poisons. She also holds the antidote.” Malken withdrew an object of his own, a small hourglass. He tipped it over, and the sand began to snake down to the bottom portion. “You have this much time to make your decision. A quarter of your earnings, or your life.” When Turndach stayed silent, his shocked gaze frozen on the rapidly emptying hourglass, Malken chided, “Come now, surely the decision isn’t all that difficult!”

  It wasn’t. “I agree!” Turndach burst out. Rozalia obligingly uncorked the vial of precious fluid and, striding with a leisurely pace to the dockmaster, emptied the contents of the vial in his opened mouth. Turndach gulped, and within seconds the pain faded. The pustules on his face dried up, leaving scabs behind. His aching spine straight once more, the dockmaster sagged in relief, gasping and trembling. Malken gestured, and one of the servants slipped behind the wharf-master and cut his bonds. Rubbing his wrists, which were red but not raw, Turndach stared at the man who had nearly killed him.

  “You’re right, of course, about the plains cats. I can’t send them after everyone who crosses me—people would talk. But these little fellows, my small friends—admittedly, their use is limited,” Malken drawled. “The poison on their claws kills them as well. One little nick—” He shrugged his shoulders. “But I have plenty of cats. They’re everywhere. They are my eyes and ears, dockmaster, and if you breathe one word of what happened here tonight—well, Rozalia’s poison works even faster on children. You have four, don’t you?”

  The dockmaster flushed angrily, but held his tongue. Malken laughed from behind his mask. “You’re a fast l
earner. Good. I like that. I’m not the most patient of teachers. For now, dockmaster,” continued Malken, leaning back in his chair and surveying his newest servant, “I will honor you with my trust. On your word, you are to donate a quarter of each month’s earnings to the Claws of Sehkmaa when they come to accept offerings. Try to cheat me, and you’ll need to beware the cat in the night. How you get the money, as I have said, is your business, and I won’t interfere. In fact, if things work well, I and my followers may be able to help you increase that income—and offer you protection, should the need arise.”

  “I have my own protection,” Turndach snapped.

  Malken chuckled again. “It didn’t help this evening, did it?” Turndach’s lips thinned, and his eyes flashed angrily. Malken leaned forward, sliding the heavy pewter plate across the table to the man standing in front of him. “Have an apple? They’re not poisoned, I assure you!” He and Rozalia laughed, but Turndach remained stonily silent. “As you wish. You’ll dine at my table soon enough, dockmaster. Everyone does.” With a slight flick of his long, gloved fingers, Malken indicated that the conversation was at an end. None-too-gentle hands took Turndach’s arms, but he savagely shrugged them off.

  “I leave here your ally, Malken. At least give me the dignity of departing unescorted!”

  Malken raised an eyebrow, impressed. “As you wish, friend. They’ll not touch you as long as you don’t warrant it. I suggest you travel with my Claws, though, until you reach the outside. Lots of unpleasant surprises in my sanctuary for the uneducated.”

  Back straight, the master of the wharf departed, closely ringed by the Claws. “He could be trouble,” Rozalia warned, pouring Malken a glass of wine.

  “Possibly. But for every trout in the river, there are dozens of minnows who’d gladly take his place—and who wouldn’t need to be escorted unwillingly, either. He’ll have his chance. If not—” a hand dropped lazily down to caress the silky black head of a plains cat “—my beauties will feast.”

  The Merry Mermaid, despite its location in the River Quarter, was a family affair. A stout, red-cheeked man named Enoch and his wife, Hannelore, were the proprietors; their daughter, Elyssa, had waited tables. Tristan knew them, although they did not recognize him; he and Sigfrid, in disguise, had visited the inn only a few nights ago. Then, with a sweet smile, the pretty Elyssa had brought them ale. Now she lay in the city morgue, latest victim of the signature killer, and Tristan and Sigfrid were questioning the grieving parents.

  “Elyssa knew better’n to let some stranger walk her home,” mourned Hannelore, her words catching in her throat. “Her pa and I told her, wait for us t’ close up, and we’d take her home ourselves … but she never liked to trouble us.…” Tears welled in her eyes, and she turned away.

  “Mama?” came a small voice. Tristan glanced up to see a six-year-old boy peering curiously down the stairs. “Why are you crying? Did Elyssa run away?”

  “Go back to bed, Garran,” Enoch told his son. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

  “But—”

  “Honey, you heard your papa,” said Hannelore thickly. Frightened, uncomprehending, the youngster did as he was told.

  Tristan and Sigfrid questioned the parents for another half hour, then left them to their grief, donning cloaks and stepping out into the cool night air. They walked in silence for a few moments. At last Sigfrid said, “It must have been somebody she trusted. Elyssa sounds like a smart girl, not the sort to be alone with a stranger when there’s a killer out in the streets.”

  “That seems logical.”

  “Perhaps she had a gentleman she didn’t want her parents to know about.”

  “Or maybe it was an old family friend.”

  A sudden shriek behind them made both soldiers whirl, drawing their swords smoothly in the same gesture. The street was only dimly lit, as was usual in this area, but Tristan could make out four cloaked forms fleeing from the direction of the Merry Mermaid. At once Tristan and Sigfrid were in hot pursuit. When they approached the tavern, they saw that the windows were open and one shutter hung crookedly on its hinges. Tristan knew then who had screamed.

  He skidded to a halt, leaving the chase to see to the victims. Tristan stuck his head inside the window, but it was dark. He could see nothing. “Enoch? Hannelore?” he called. No answer. He tried the door, but it was locked, and he hurled his muscular frame against it. The door groaned, but did not give. At the second shove, the door’s bar splintered, and he stumbled inside. The dim light from outside filtering through the doorway was enough for Tristan to see what he had dreaded.

  Enoch was clearly dead. A blow from a sharp blade had nearly separated his head from his shoulders. Hannelore was still alive, but would not be for long. Her torso was hacked, and blood pooled out from under her. Her agony-filled eyes met Tristan’s, and the fingers of her right hand twitched, as if trying to reach out to him. Tristan knelt by her side and closed his strong hand reassuringly about her bloody one.

  “Who did this to you?” he asked, his voice rough with intensity.

  Her lips opened, moved. Blood spilled out, and the hand in his went limp. Tristan undid his cloak and gently covered Hannelore’s savaged corpse with it.

  Sigfrid came in, panting. “Lost them,” he gasped. Then he saw the bodies, and swore violently.

  “They knew who killed Elyssa,” said Tristan. “They didn’t realize it, but they knew. And someone wanted them silenced.”

  “Where’s the boy?” asked Sigfrid tensely.

  “I’ll look for him. You go find the nearest guards and let’s start figuring out what happened.”

  The search for the child yielded nothing. At least, thought Tristan grimly, there was no tiny corpse waiting to be discovered. When Sigfrid returned with two guardsmen, Tristan had already begun to examine the crime scene.

  “They were counting up the day’s take when the killers broke in,” he told Sigfrid. “There’s the money bag open, its contents scattered behind the bar.”

  “But—didn’t they take the money?”

  “Yes and no. This ledger,” Tristan indicated a book, “shows that they had pulled in twelve gold, eighteen silver, and three dozen copper pieces. Only the copper and silver are still here.”

  “Mighty picky thieves, taking only the gold,” commented one of the guards.

  “Indeed,” agreed Tristan. He moved to the corpse of Enoch. “Take a look at these wounds, Captain Skolsson. What do you think made them?”

  Sigfrid knelt, examining the body. He removed Hannelore’s cloak and looked at her corpse as well. “Bladed weapon of some kind. Short sword would have produced stab wounds; these were done by a slashing weapon. Probably curved, to judge by the depth. I’d say a curved dagger, a scimitar, or a cutlass.”

  Tristan paused. “Can you narrow it down further?”

  “Not without knowing who wielded the weapon. The depth of the wounds could vary, depending on the strength of the killer. None of the weapons is all that unusual. I’d say most of the people in this quarter have cutlasses. Curved daggers are not uncommon, and at least a few hundred people in Kantora have scimitars.”

  Including, Tristan thought with a sinking feeling, every member of the Claws of Sehkmaa. “So it’s impossible to trace the weapon,” he concluded. He turned his attention to the guards. “Any witnesses?”

  “No one on this street saw or heard anything.”

  Sigfrid’s face flushed with anger. “Then they’re all liars. You and I heard the scream, and we were more than two blocks away!”

  “But why lie?” Tristan wondered. The answer came as clearly as if whispered in his ear.

  These people were afraid.

  Just like Osric Laars was afraid.

  “We may have one witness willing to talk,” he said.

  “Who?” Sigfrid asked.

  “Garran, Enoch’s little boy.”

  “Tristan, we don’t know where he is, or if he’s even alive!” said Sigfrid, exasperated.

  Trista
n raised a hand in a calming gesture. “I have a feeling we’ll find him at the Paw of the Cat.”

  The next day, he mounted Kal and rode into Kantora along the High Road. Tristan curiously examined the bathhouse-cum-temple under construction. It was humble, as such things went. He had seen enormous structures devoted to deities in other lands, but Sehkmaa seemed content with a simple place for his followers to worship. As Tristan drew rein and halted for a moment, he could see three Claws directing the workers. Next to the emerging temple was a group of buildings that had become the Paw of the Cat.

  Tristan noted there was no gate in the new wall. Then why build a wall at all? he wondered. As he watched, a gray and white cat leapt gracefully onto the barrier. Its yellow eyes gazed at him steadily. Tristan felt inexplicably uncomfortable under that unblinking gaze. Ignoring the cat, he squeezed Kal’s side and walked the horse into the courtyard. The cat followed, slinking along the wall, its ears flat against its head.

  He rode slowly, wary of any children who might suddenly scamper his way. The yard, though amply supplied with outdoor toys such as hoops and stick horses, was devoid of children. Perhaps they were at their lessons. He draped Kal’s reins around a tree branch, and the horse lowered his head to crop.

  Tristan walked to the nearest house. Graceful and spacious in design, the building had previously been a town home of a wealthy Kantoran landowner. He stretched out a hand to the door’s knocker, but before his fingers could close on it, the door opened.

  Tristan’s eyes widened as he stared at the skinny young Vistana woman who greeted him. He had thought Rozalia was actively hostile to giorgios, so seeing her here, in an orphanage for giorgio children, was the last thing he had expected. It was clear from the flash of anger in her eyes that she recognized him as well. He started to give her the hand signal that was the traditional greeting among her people, but she laid a cool hand on his fingers, stilling them.

  “Such gestures are no longer necessary. I am now Sister Rozalia, one of the Claws of Sehkmaa. Welcome to the Paw of the Cat. How can I help you?”