by Nyna Queen
And the man himself was the biggest hypocrite of them all. Short, more than a tad overweight, with a nervous twitch, the provost of this particular convent hadn’t earned his job through skill or hard work, but—as far as rumor had it—by knowing the right people and spending enough money in the right establishments. Having dealt with the man, Darken was more than inclined to take those rumors at face value. Lord Falcrum was as ill-suited for this job as a fat, short-legged, dim-witted sheep would be guarding a pack of cunning, ever-hungry wolves. Being faced with just a single forfeit drove the man close to having a heart attack.
But spending a couple of years in a forfeit’s convent was—for anyone but a forfeit—a prestigious position, that resulted in being set for life, because of the high risks attached to it.
The provost had been standing behind his desk and studying a piece of paper. He turned, and almost dropped the letter at the sight of Darken leaning at the door, dark and silent as a shadow.
“Darken!” His voice squeaked a little. “Didn’t expect you so soon. Sit.” He pointed a pudgy hand toward the chair across from his desk. “Sit. Sit.”
Darken slid into the chair, crossed one leg over the other and steepled his fingers, waiting.
Cumbersomely settling himself in his own chair, the provost nudged the papers in front of him into an even straighter pile, repeatedly touching the remote control for the tempering rings, which was lying within reach on his desk. Darken wondered if he was even aware of this gesture. Regardless, it annoyed him beyond words.
“Yes, ah, well.” The provost finally faced him with a smile that was a bit too wide, too artificial.
“You look good, Darken. Good. All funned out, yes?” He cleared his throat. “You see, word travels and I understand there was … er … a situation.”
If one wanted to call him slaughtering a dozen people outside the Pacified Zone in a blood frenzy “a situation,” then, yes, there had been a situation.
“Dreadful what happened to your … I mean the children of your brother. Yes, simply dreadful. I hope they are quite well, considering the circumstances?”
“Considering the circumstances.”
“Yes, naturally, naturally. The trauma. No child should have to go through something like that,” the provost said. “It was quite a stroke of luck that you were close by. And at the other end of the country of all places!” His small eyes glanced up from the papers that he kept nervously shifting around, watching Darken queerly. “Really, a lucky coincidence.”
“Wasn’t it indeed?” Darken said pleasantly, resting his chin upon his steepled forefingers, while his lips curved into a predatory smile. The other man shivered involuntarily.
“Hm. Yes. Just wondering.” The provost dabbed his shiny forehead. “What were you doing so far away from Lancaester? Any particular reason?”
Darken touched the side of an old wooden globe with his fingertips, making it spin.
“Oh, I make it a habit of traveling the country as far as my limited time allows,” he said in a bored tone. “I was under the impression that I could use my free time as I please. They have very beautiful botanical gardens in Rhelrya.”—which was a place close to Manor Creek County—“Have you ever seen them?”
“N-no.”
“Then you should.” Darken smiled. “They are a worthy sight. They are particularly famous for their magnificent ‘lakes within lakes.’ And they have very … rich soil.”
Instantly, Darken could read the thoughts flashing across the provost’s face, contemplating the fact that rich soil also meant “good for burying bodies,” and what he would find if he were to ever venture down any of the paths Darken had trod before.
“So you see, it was more an idle adventure than for any particular reason.” Darken raised a finger, stopping the globe mid-motion and leaned forward, looking directly at the provost. “Why? Was there anything worthy of my interest in that area?”
He was waiting for an insinuation concerning the dark events that had taken place at Manor Creek, prepared to spin a convincing tale. Instead, the other man winced, eyes wide. “Worthy of—? No! No.” He shook his head. “No. Of course not. Please, forgive my curiosity.”
Darken leaned back, trying not to show his surprise, while the provost continued to ramble. “I thought … you know, this must have been a stressful time for your family, yes? So maybe, yes, yes, you should take a few more days off. As you said, we’ve kept you so busy lately … And you just fed, didn’t you? So there’s no real need …” He hesitated. “Of course, I can put you on an assignment but I would understand if you’d rather spend some more time with your family. After all that has happened, I’m sure they would like to have someone in the house they can trust, yes?”
When Darken opened his mouth, the plump man began to shake his head wildly. “No really, Darken, I insist. A little vacation … Just until things have calmed down a little …” He gave Darken a tense smile. “After the tests, naturally. Must keep the formalities.”
Vacation, indeed. Darken tapped his fingertips together. This offer wasn’t made out of pure kindheartedness or—perish the thought—concern for his family. No. He was being sent away. To a place, they knew he wouldn’t leave unless he was expressly ordered back. Curious, curious. Someone wanted him out of the way. But why?
Something he would figure out later. He wasn’t intrigued enough to decline an offer to go home when it was handed to him on a silver platter.
“Indeed, I would,” Darken said suavely. “In fact, I appreciate your thoughtfulness. With your leave, I’ll report for the tests right away.”
“Sure, sure.” The provost waved a magnanimous hand. “Off you go. If you pass the tests tomorrow, you can leave the day after tomorrow, first thing.”
Can’t get rid of me quickly enough, can you?
Darken rose and inclined his head with just the required amount of respect. “Provost.” With that, he left the office.
THE provost stared at the closed office door, allowing himself to finally give in to the shivers that became more and more intense.
Never show fear in front of the subjects. It was the most vital rule they had inculcated him with when he had been appointed as provost. Never show your fear. They see it, they feel it, they smell it. They are attracted to it and it only makes them more dangerous.
But, Mother’s mercy and Jester’s grace, how could you not be afraid among these psychotic killing machines? He’d thought that he would only have to make an appearance at the compound once in a while, not to actually have to deal with them, day after day. They were mad, the lot of them. And Darken … he was one of the worst. Always calm, always courteous on the outside. Bored, even. So irritatingly indifferent to everything. But that massacre outside the Pacified Zone …
Falcrum shuddered and went over to his mini bar, filling up a tall glass of cognac and downing it at once.
Darken, Darken, Darken. One of his best subjects. One of his most troublesome, too. He had always been different from most of the subjects under his “care,” due to his family ties. And now …
The provost’s hands shook as he filled himself a second glass. Darken was becoming a real problem and Falcrum knew his obligations.
Feeling sufficiently mellowed by the alcohol, the provost picked up the earpiece for his vis-aural emitter and channeled a spark of magic into it, while activating the right sequence of glyphs.
A terse voice answered after a couple of seconds.
The provost licked his lips. “There’s a problem with subject C48,” he said unceremoniously. “Yes, Darken. I’m afraid he might discover something …”
The voice at the other end of the line replied succinctly.
“Yes … yes, I know he’s my responsibility but … Yes … I, uhm …” He hesitated. “I … sent him home.”
The torrent of words that followed almost made him yank out his earpiece. He clutched the front of his shirt to keep himself from reaching for the remote control on the table, useless as th
is gesture would be.
“Better to have him occupied with his family than having him snooping around here,” Falcrum snapped. Better than having him slinking around in this confined place, breathing down his neck. Or, worse, breaking his neck.
The other voice spoke rapidly.
The provost nodded. “Yes … Yes … Do you really think that is—Yes … Yes, I understand.” The connection went silent and the lights dimmed out.
Falcrum pulled out the earpiece and dropped it on the desk as if it were on fire. His bowels churned, sending acid up his throat.
It took two more servings of cognac until he felt steady enough to do what had been asked of him. Taking a deep breath, he fished out a key from the inside of his shirt and opened a desk drawer. He took out a piece of parchment and unrolled it across the table.
The letters blurred a little in front of his eyes. He blinked and forced himself to read it twice, taking in the gravity of the words.
His hand shook as he grabbed his fountain pen and wrote his signature at the bottom. It shook even more as he pressed the Order’s seal onto it, giving the image—a bloodraven perching on a keep in front of crossed swords—a wobbly outline.
He looked at it for a long moment, then, with a heavy sigh, folded the order together, put it back into the drawer and locked it, sincerely hoping that he wouldn’t have to use it.
CHAPTER SEVEN
AFTER leaving the provost’s office, Darken prowled through the corridors of the compound like a hunter that had run out of prey: tense and dissatisfied. He reached the inner courtyard of the convent and slipped outside, facing a stretch of barren grass, cropped almost to non-existence between strips of concrete. Arched walkways connected at the center of the square; a black cross from a bird’s eye perspective.
Despite it being a warm day, the place seemed bleak and bitter. Even the air seemed darker within the confines of the compound than it had been on the outside, as if the walls wouldn’t allow any warmth and cheerfulness to penetrate a place housed by those who served Death herself.
Near the wall, two forfeits were playing cards at a stone table. One of them, a man in his forties with long black hair and heavy burn-scars covering half of his face, going by the name of Rojas, touched his forehead with two fingers—as close to a friendly shout-out as one could get around here. Darken returned the gesture and moved on, returning to his agitated thoughts.
The provost knew he’d been in Manor Creek. Well, no, he didn’t know, but he strongly suspected it, and with good reason. Darken had no business being anywhere that far south, and Stephane’s less-than-subtle interest in the murder case made it the logical explanation. That’s why Darken had expected them to press the issue—finally something they could use to defame him—and he had already prepared several different stories, depending on the way things went. If they really wanted to nail him, they could even set up an official hearing and make it a public issue. Yet they couldn’t do so without shedding some more light on what had really happened at the murder scene that day and, apparently, this was something they didn’t want to do … Why?
Secrets and lies. So damn many secrets and lies.
A shadow moved beneath the arch to his left.
Darken stopped. A smile curved his lips.
“Belaris.”
There was the soft rustle of cloth on stone and suddenly a young man was perched atop the five-foot-high stone wall that was cutting through the arch, his back brushing the curved black stones.
Blond hair, wicked blue eyes, and a body that went right with his devilishly handsome features. In his black coat, Belaris looked like a cross between an angel and a raven—promising innocent virtues and delivering deadly vices.
Sometimes the Great Mother had an evil sense of humor. With his looks, Belaris would have been the center of attention at any kind of social gathering. That is, if he hadn’t been born what he was. Things being as they were …
Well, forfeit or no, Belaris still wasn’t in short supply of female—and sometimes male—attention but his time at the Order had nurtured his desire for cruel pleasures. They had molded him into a lethal blade, and now that body was a weapon, honed to the utmost perfection, and any kind of pleasure Belaris provided came at the price of pain.
Oh, Darken understood. He understood very well. When claimed, Belaris had been abandoned by his family. Forbidden to see his little sister. Forgotten by the world, unless they needed someone to conduct their bloody business. The constant use and abuse their kind suffered in the service of the state, the mixture of goading and punishment, had quenched the youthful fire that had once blazed brightly inside him, crystallizing it into cold, hard ice. Today, the only thing that still burned inside Belaris, was hatred.
Even Darken sometimes had trouble finding the funny, boisterous youth inside the cold, bitter man they had created, but he, at least, still went looking for him.
Belaris lazily dangled one leg down the wall. “Darken! Long time no see.”
“I was on leave.” Darken leaned against the stonewall and propped one boot against it. “Family business.”
“Didn’t stop you from practicing your finer skills, or so I heard.”
Belaris grinned. Sometimes he’d grin just like this when he was pushing a knife up to the hilt into his victim’s chest. “Nicely done, by the way. Don’t think I could have messed up any worse than that.”
Darken gave his best friend a sharp glance. “Nothing stays secret inside these walls, does it? You’d think this place is full of gossip mongers, instead of state-licensed assassins pledged to secrecy.”
Belaris spread his arms wide with mock indignation. “We do need something to fill the bleakness of our days with, don’t we? And, to be fair, it’s mostly the handlers that talk, not us. However, being a bunch of grim, pseudo-mute killers doesn’t turn us deaf.”
Darken shook his head. “Well, I heard, in the world out there, gossip is best shared over a cup of coffee.” Meaning: “I need to talk to you and I don’t want anybody to overhear what we say.”
Without forewarning, Belaris jumped off the wall. He landed in a slight crouch, straightened and smirked. “You know me, I never say no to coffee.”
In companionable silence, they walked through the compound to the canteen. Ten minutes later, each of them holding a latte, Belaris guided Darken to another part of the inner courtyard toward a lone-standing bench that sat in one of the arches’ shadow.
Dropping himself onto the bench, Belaris took a sip of coffee and grimaced. “Man, they could at least start serving us some decent coffee in here. I keep telling them it tastes like piss. Why the hell do they never listen to me?” Shaking his head, he flicked his fingers and a minuscule object appeared in his hand. It looked a bit like a tiny glass flower but Darken immediately recognized it as a field sound dampener. When it was activated, as long as they kept their voices low, there would be no way to listen in on them, not even by magical means.
Darken’s eyebrows arched upward. “How in the name of the Great Mother did you get this in?”
Belaris shrugged smugly and fixed the dampener on the bench between them, activating it with a spark of magic. “I occasionally bang the wife of one of the handlers.” He grinned. “Christina the ballerina. My, what flexibility! The submissive little thing was quite eager to help me out. Can’t get loads of them, though.”
Darken shook his head. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”
“If it’s not dangerous, where is the fun? Anyway,” Belaris waved his hand with the coffee mug in an inviting gesture, “what’s the pitch?”
In a few words, Darken told him what he had witnessed about the murders of Manor Creek County inside the Amplificum, ending with the two forfeit killing the heavily injured woman.
“He really broke her neck?” Belaris pursed his lips. “That’s sick, man.” He rubbed his chin. “What’cha think? A private vendetta, maybe?”
Darken shook his head. Though strictly forbidden and highly punishable, i
t wasn’t completely unheard-of that a forfeit would once in a while lend out his services to a private party in exchange for some kind of favor. But this murder didn’t have the right ring to it. Especially since the children had been targeted as well.
“I checked the family out,” he said. “No reason why they would be on anybody’s killing list. They were trueborn, yes, but virtual nobodies. Farmers. No evident enemies. Not even a neighborhood row.” That would have to be a hell of a grudge for someone to wipe out an entire family including their offspring.
Belaris cocked his head to the side. “First the shapers, then the forfeit on top of that? Definitely connected, or I’m a bloody shaper myself. And you say it sounded like they had an order?”
Darken nodded. “Right after, they called someone and told them it was done. What does that sound like to you? And our oh-so-hard-nosed provost was a bit too quick to avoid the topic, when they should have been on me like vultures on fresh carrion.” A cold smile crept across Darken’s lips. “They are very keen on discarding me these days. This would have been a prime opportunity. But dear Lord Falcrum backed down before the show even got started.” He leaned forward. “I want to know who gave this order and I want to know why.”
A light crimson sheen rolled over Belaris’ irises. “And you want me to hack into the file logs and have a look around for you.”
“I like it when our minds run on such parallel tracks.”
Belaris shook one finger at him, the tattoos of their caste flashing black and gold. “Tsk-tsk. Such a naughty boy. Always trying to get me into trouble.”
