by Peace, Cas
A voice crawled out of the darkness. “Keep still, my Lady, and you won’t be hurt. There are none to hear should you scream. Your servants are too far away and the housekeeper’s dead. I have orders to take you with me and I have no wish to render you unconscious, but I will if you cause me trouble. Do you understand?”
Jinny managed a nod against the pressure on her mouth. She felt his hand ease away and he raised his body upright. But he didn’t release her arms.
“Who the hell are you?” she demanded, anger and fright lending her strength. “What gives you the right to come barging in here? What do you want with me?”
The man grinned nastily. Jinny shrank back with a gasp of horror as the demonic glow in his eyes intensified and the charnel reek rose again. She retched.
“Jinny, my dear niece, that’s not very ladylike.”
Jinny’s eyes stretched wide and she stared frantically about the room. She had clearly heard her uncle’s voice, yet he was nowhere to be seen.
“I’m right before you, my dear.”
Now she did scream, for she’d seen the vagrant’s mouth move, speaking in the tones of her uncle.
His hand clamped over her lips once again to muffle the shriek, but if what he’d said was true there was little chance of her being heard. The servants’ wing was too far away for the sound to carry, especially with all the casements closed and covered with heavy drapes. The hand released her mouth then slapped her cheek as she drew breath for another scream. Shocked, she whimpered.
“How is this possible? I thought you were dead! They told me you’d taken your own life! How can you speak to me?”
Her uncle’s voice came soothingly out of the dark. “Jinny, Jinny. You really shouldn’t believe everything you hear. Did you think I’d let them defeat me? Did you think I’d let them take everything from me with no thought for revenge? No, my dear, I was only biding my time. And now I’m ready, and I want you to help me. You must go with my servant, Jinny dear. He’ll bring you to me. Can we trust you not to make a fuss? I do hope so, for I’d hate to have him damage you.”
Jinny was trembling uncontrollably. She didn’t understand any of this. The man above her spoke in her uncle’s voice, using words her uncle would use. Yet the Baron was dead—hadn’t Taran told her so? Whatever Taran’s faults, he would never lie to her about something so important. So how was this possible? It went far beyond her experience, despite the many curious things Taran had told her about his own capabilities. No, it was just too fantastical to believe. It must be a trick of some kind.
Jinny opened her mouth to protest, choking as her assailant’s fingers tightened about her throat, cutting off her air. She was still smothered in the folds of her bedding, pinned helplessly by the filthy man’s weight. The sudden attack, coupled with the reek of rotting flesh, overwhelmed her and flooded her with panic.
The dreadful eyes in that expressionless face hovered inches above Jinny’s, a shuddering red mist seen through tears. She felt the stubble of his chin scrape across her cheek, he was so close. His breath hissed in her ear as he whispered, “My dear, did you by any chance hear about the terrible murder of the Arch Patrio in the city today?”
Jinny stiffened, struggling to breathe. The man’s cruel grip bruised her delicate flesh, yet let just enough air through so she didn’t suffocate.
“I feel I ought to tell you that this servant of mine was the perpetrator of that dreadful crime. He slit Neremiah’s throat—slit it slowly with a ragged knife. Your whore of a housekeeper chose to be difficult, and now she’s lying in a pool of her own blood. You’re not so vital to my plans that I need you alive. Think on that, my Lady Baroness, and decide what you want to do. Keep quiet and come to me, or end up dead with your own throat cut. Make your choice.”
Tears coursed down Jinny’s face. She didn’t know if she was truly speaking with her uncle, but she believed his threats. If she didn’t do as she was told, she would end up dead. She was already half-suffocated and had no strength left to resist.
If only Taran were here with her! If they hadn’t quarreled, if she hadn’t overreacted and sent him away, he would have defended her to the end of his life. He would never have let harm come to her while there was breath in his body. But it was too late now for such realizations. He wasn’t here, and it was her own fault for reacting so badly.
A great sob welled up in her breast, but she hadn’t the breath for it. She gave the slightest of nods and gasped when the restricting hand was removed from her throat. Before she could catch her breath, the comforter was flung over her head and she was bundled off the bed. Something was used to tie it tightly around her body, pinning her arms, and she was slung over the filthy man’s shoulder like a sack of grain.
Still struggling for air through her bruised throat, Jinny’s senses reeled, casting her into a swamping well of darkness.
+ + + + +
Out in the hallway, Seth heard the single shriek and nearly left his post to see what had happened. The memory of the vagrant’s ruined flesh returned to haunt him, and he thought better of his actions. Trembling, sweating, he stood and waited.
Soon he saw the vagrant moving toward him from the gloom of Jinny’s solar. Seth registered the bulky burden slung over the man’s shoulder, and the fact it was still alive. He opened his mouth, but the vagrant hissed sharply. “Silence, you fool!”
Seth’s mouth snapped shut. The vagrant waved him back and stepped out into the hallway. “All quiet?”
Seth nodded. He knew the shriek wouldn’t have carried to the servants’ wing and the house had no other occupants. Not live ones, anyway.
The wastrel gave a curt nod. “Go fetch what you brought. Be quick about it.”
Ignoring the imperious tone, Seth did as he was told. He used the back door rather than going through the kitchens again, and was back in minutes. The dreadful man had dumped Jinny on the floor and directed Seth into her bedchamber. As the manservant placed the dead whore on Jinella’s bed, the wastrel lit one of the oil lamps and found the small pile of jewelry on the bedside table. “Does she usually wear all of this?”
Seth examined the glittering pile. He selected the items Jinella always wore and took them over to the corpse. Averting his eyes from the gray face with its grotesque, staring eyes, he fastened the necklace and pushed rings onto stiffening fingers. The whore had thicker fingers than Jinella and he had a job to force the rings onto the cold, unresponsive flesh. But he finally got the job done.
He gazed at the vagrant. “Are you leaving her on the bed?”
“Why not?”
“Well, the mistress wouldn’t usually lie clothed in one of her best gowns on the bed. When she’s in her bedchamber, she usually wears a house robe.”
The vagrant slapped his forehead. “Now he tells me.”
Seth allowed what he considered righteous anger to surface. “Well, if you’d done as I asked and told me what the plan was I’d have mentioned it sooner!”
His acerbic tone failed to impress, however, and the vagrant glared at him. “I know very well the woman sometimes reads or writes in this room. I have a better authority than you to tell me what happens here, remember? It doesn’t matter what she’s wearing, only that it’s recognizable as Jinella’s. There won’t be much else left to worry about. Now is the time to collect anything you might want from this house and any coin you might have. You’ll be needing new lodgings after tonight’s work. Take anything of value you want; the master doesn’t want you to be in need because of this. But hurry, I want to be gone from here.”
Seth did as he was bid. He didn’t possess much he couldn’t bear to lose and it didn’t take him long to fetch it. He had a small room on the same floor as Jinella’s, next to what had been the Baron’s private suite. It had made their personal arrangements easier to manage. Once he had collected some clothes and his few belongings, he entered the Baron’s old rooms and made for the large chest beneath the window. The Baron’s store of ready coin was still where he h
ad kept it, superficially hidden under the chest’s contents. Grinning, Seth stuffed as much as he could carry into a pillowcase and returned to the vagrant’s side.
The wasted man stood beside Jinella’s wrapped body, waiting impatiently. He made no comment when he saw Seth’s haul, but waved the manservant back into the room. “Dump that sack and go smash all the oil lamps. Be sure they break. And don’t get any oil on your own clothes.”
Seth doused the room with oil and the vagrant poured a good measure over the dead whore’s body, paying special attention to the face. He made sure to leave a good portion of the gown untouched. For effect, he pulled the dead whore half off the bed, as if the woman, overcome by the fire, had fallen across it in her dying moments. He took a taper from the pot by the hearth and thrust it into the embers. It glowed a bloody red, matching the terrible flare in his eyes. He turned to stare at Seth.
“I’d get out if I were you.”
The voice crawled hideously from the twisted mouth, the Baron savoring this vengeful moment. Seth didn’t need telling twice. As he left the room he heard the first crackle of flames taking hold of the room’s sumptuous furnishings, fueled by the volatile oil. He paused in the solar, but the vagrant didn’t stay to witness his handiwork. He brushed past Seth, upsetting another lamp and tossing the taper into the leaking oil. Flames licked instantly on the pool’s surface.
The two men emerged into the corridor and the vagrant closed the solar door. He indicated Jinella’s trussed body and Seth resignedly picked her up, tucking his bulging pillowcase under one arm. They moved back through the mansion, the vagrant spilling oil and igniting it as he went, directing them finally into the kitchen.
“Put her down and go deal with the housekeeper’s room,” he hissed.
Seth did as he was told, reluctant though he was to confront the gory scene of his crime and Alice’s silently accusing body. He did as the vagrant had done and watched the flames catch, their greedy crackle soon to consume the grisly evidence of his guilt.
When he returned to the kitchen the vagrant had Jinella over his shoulder. He stood by the scullery door. His disturbing eyes fastened on Seth, the sardonic smile back on the wasted lips.
“My friend, your part is done. How you play this situation is up to you. The master has no instructions for you. Just be sure to wait until the building is well alight. Then you can either play the hero and attempt to save the servants, or you can turn your back and find yourself an alibi somewhere. Go back to the brothel, if you like—the key’s on the table there. Mistress Nolah won’t have disturbed that room and she’ll never mention one slovenly girl’s disappearance—not after what she’s been paid. But whatever you do, keep out of the way of those cursed witches from the Manor. It’s rumored they can read your mind, tell if you’re lying. You’d not want that, now, would you? I doubt we’ll meet again, and the master’ll reward your loyalty when he returns to claim his rightful place. Now go.”
Seth, undecided as to his best course of action, grabbed his pillowcase, snatched up the brothel key, and left the kitchen, followed by the wastrel. They emerged into the kitchen yard and Seth watched the dreadful man disappear into the darkness before closing the scullery door, relocking it, and replacing the key behind its concealing brick. Casting apprehensive eyes up at the intensifying glow from the mansion’s windows, he melted into the snowy shadows.
+ + + + +
The vagrant carried his burden away from the burning mansion. As he walked, he felt the Baron’s controlling hand take over his soul, filling his enslaved mind with triumph and glee. Although he was way past feeling pleasure as a normal man might, the Baron’s servant still experienced a wash of relief at a task well-accomplished. He knew intimately how his master punished failure or transgression, and had no wish to experience such torture again. The misery of his existence was purgatory enough. Now he lived only for the day when his usefulness was over and he would be allowed, at last, to die.
Once he was far enough away from the mansion and out into the deserted, snow-laden fields, he halted. He felt the Baron exert his will, manipulating the substrate as his stolen skills had shown him, opening a rent within the Veils to allow his servant access.
Although furnished with the knowledge of how to use his powers, Reen had usurped them with no finesse, no thought for the training that underpinned the talents of those he’d assimilated. He had no understanding of what he did or why—only the how. The Baron’s power, although strengthened by his hatred, was raw and vulgar and took no account of the effect it had upon those subjected to it.
Jinella had no innate Artesan gifts, but she had lived with a talented Adept-elite for three years. She had gradually developed an embryo sense of what occurred when those skills were used, becoming sensitive and open to power without being aware of it. Because it was involuntary, she had no defenses, no conscious shield, and so, when the vagrant entered the crude, ragged rent within the Veils, Jinella, half-smothered and swooning, was hit with the full force of the experience.
Her tortured scream shattered the night.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Taran sat bolt upright in bed, covered with sweat, trembling in every muscle. He stared wildly about in the darkness, trying to identify the source of his terror. His breath heaved painfully through constricted lungs, his throat raw and painful. He wrapped his arms about his chest, hugging himself, disoriented, sick, and dizzy.
With an effort, he mastered himself, bringing his talents to bear. His immediate senses told him nothing threatened in his room, and nothing in the castle either, so he could afford the time to calm his pounding heart. His breathing slowed, his heart rate returned to normal. But he had to use his healing abilities to reduce the burning in his throat and ease the cramped sensation in his lungs.
He leaned back against sweat-sodden pillows, wearily wondering if he had managed to contract a fever, rare though sickness was for an Artesan. But when he examined his body closely, he found no evidence. Puzzled, he shrugged into his night robe and got out of bed. The sheets and pillows were clammy with sweat, too uncomfortable to lie on. He would have to change the bedding if he was to get any more sleep this night.
As he opened the wooden blanket chest at the end of the bed, he picked over what his memory could tell him of the past few minutes. Was it a nightmare? Could a bad dream explain such depths of terror, such extreme reactions? He didn’t think so and could find no traces of such a dream within his subconscious. All he could remember were sensations of restriction, of a burning throat, of suffocating breathlessness, horror, and panic.
He went suddenly cold. Dropping his armful of clean bedding, he sent his psyche arrowing out across the landscape, frantically searching for a pattern he knew well, praying he would find its imprint safe and undamaged. Thoughts of Sullyan’s ordeal at the hands of Lord Rykan and her desperate attempts to reach through spellsilver to the empathic Rienne pounded in his brain. When he did finally reach her, when he touched her quiescent, glowing psyche, he breathed a huge sigh of relief. Its calm state showed she was asleep. No dreams troubled her slumber, no menace threatened.
Taran collapsed to the crumpled bed, shaking his head. He didn’t disturb her, wouldn’t trespass upon her rest with no better reason than the effects of a bad dream. Once again he stilled his racing heart, and stood to gather the bedding he had dropped.
He glanced to his window, trying to gauge the hour. It was dark and silent outside. Not even the sounds of the garrison preparing to ride out for their punitive sweeps reached his ears. It must still be early. So why, he thought, was there a sullen red glow in the sky?
Taran hadn’t gone early to his bed. His luck at cards had changed and he had enjoyed a run of good hands. Only once had he been deceived by Denny’s bluffing tactics; otherwise he’d called the Major on his bets and had reaped the benefits. He had even beaten Ardoch, which was more of a rarity than triumphing over Denny. The talk, the game, and the comradeship had kept the Adept long from his bed.
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When he had finally succumbed to weariness he’d fallen instantly asleep. Yet his slumber hadn’t been deepened by alcohol. With dawn patrols to lead and the dreadful murder of the Arch Patrio uppermost in their minds, none had partaken of intoxicating liquor. General Blaine’s views on strong drink were well known, and should a swordsman under the King’s Oath, whatever his rank, commit transgressions of a drunken nature, he was instantly punished by dismissal with no appeal.
So Taran knew that whatever he had experienced during the night and whatever his eyes were telling him now, his senses were not dulled by drink. There was only one thing that could possibly cast such a ruddy-red glow on the underbelly of the snow-laden clouds.
Fire!
He flung off his night robe and struggled into breeches and shirt, tugging his sheepskin-lined jacket on and stamping into his boots. He ran to the window, which looked north-eastwards, trying to pinpoint the fire’s location. But the glow was widespread, distributed by the cloud cover, and he couldn’t tell the source of the flames.
He would have to rouse both castle and garrison. Fire was the city’s most feared danger. Many of the buildings were of timber or half-timbered; if fire got hold it could decimate large areas of the city very quickly. Water they had in abundance—the port wharves gave easy access to the sea—but carrying large quantities of water to the seat of a fire would take time they might not have. The little Loxton stream ran through the castle parklands, but it was too small to be much use for quenching fires. Their main defense was speed, alerting the city and preventing the fire from getting out of control.
Taran ran from his room, pounding on doors as he went, crying “Fire!” as loudly as he could. People streamed from their rest in his wake, and Colonel Vassa heard the commotion before Taran reached his quarters.
The Colonel appeared at his door, pulling on his clothes. Taran heard a sleepy voice calling anxiously from the bedchamber. Astounded, he caught a glimpse of Madam Delinna, Elias’s chatelaine, wrapping a silken robe about her statuesque figure. He raised his brows at Vassa, but there was no time for questions or amazement. Taran dismissed the incident and tersely told Vassa what he’d seen.
