by Jim C. Hines
“I’m a fire-setter,” he said, as if that explained everything. He gathered another pile of sticks and lit it with a brand from the previous fire. When nobody spoke, he pointed to the line of fires and said, “The heat cracks the stone.”
“Aren’t hammers and chisels easier?” asked Winter.
“Sure, but this is tradition. It’s all for our protection, don’t you know. See, as long as Grayrock’s been cutting stone, we’ve had a fire-setter. And in all that time, not a single worker has been eaten by dragons!”
“They say dragons are all but extinct,” said Shroud.
“That’s what they say, but why take chances?”
“Did any of the victims say they had actually seen the ghost?” Glory asked, trying to drag the interrogation back on topic.
“Well, no. Not exactly.” He poked one of the fires, sending up a geyser of sparks. “It’s not really the kind of thing one talks about. More of a private experience, if you know what I mean. Like those feelings you get around a really good-looking cousin.”
Good-looking cousins. Well, that would certainly explain a lot about these people. Glory looked around for another worker to question. Any other worker. She pointed to a man hitching a pair of mules to a cart stacked with cut stone. “You. Can you tell us where this ghost came from?”
“Nobody knows.” He leaned against one of the mules. “They call her the Smoking Huntress.”
“Why?” asked Sterling. “Is she a huntress who smokes a pipe or cigar, or is she literally on fire?”
The man stared blankly. Behind him, another worker looked up from the stone he was shaping with hammer and chisel. “Her true name is the White Ghost of the Sky. I saw her myself as she was flying over Grayrock not three days ago.”
“You were drunk, and that was a cloud,” snapped his partner.
“A ghost cloud!”
A young man, barely more than a boy, said, “I heard she rose up from Founder’s Hill to kill us all. I call her Lady Death.”
“Why Lady Death?” asked Glory. “If you’re looking to give her a scary name, why not just Death? If the ghost was a man, would you feel compelled to call him Mister Death?”
The boy stammered something unintelligible, then hunched his shoulders and turned back to his work.
Glory raised her voice. “Has anyone here actually seen or spoken with the Ghost of Grayrock?”
They murmured uncomfortably to one another, but nobody answered. The man who had dubbed her the “White Ghost of the Sky” started to raise his hand, but his partner punched him in the shoulder, and he lowered it again.
Glory tried again. “Forget the ghost. What can you tell us about the man who died yesterday?”
“Good worker,” said the fire-setter after a long pause. “Showed up every day, did his job, didn’t complain.”
A woman sharpening chisels looked up. “That’s not true. Billy walked off the job yesterday. I bumped into him on the way home after finishing my shift. He said he couldn’t work for the Mayor’s new foreman anymore—”
“The Mayor hired a new foreman?” Glory jumped down and made her way to the woman.
“Oh, yes. The Mayor took a team of twenty men off the quarry. Something about an exciting new business prospect. We haven’t seen any of them since, except for Billy, and he was only back for a day before his tragic death.”
Glory glanced at the other Heroes. The Mayor had told them the ghost was here on business. “When the Mayor talked about this new prospect, did he happen to mention a partner?”
The woman shook her head.
“What about the foreman? Where can we find him?”
“Dunno.” She sighed. “Will said Big Rob was right.”
“Big Rob?” asked Sterling.
“Another victim of the White Ghost of the Sky,” said the man with the hammer and chisel. “Poor fellow shot himself.”
“How exactly did he do that?” Glory asked.
“With a longbow.”
She folded her arms, waiting.
“Indulge my curiosity, my good chap,” Sterling said slowly. “We were told only that these men had killed themselves and we weren’t allowed to see the bodies. Where, precisely, did the arrow strike Big Rob?”
“The first one—”
“He shot himself more than once?” Glory interrupted.
“That’s right, miss.”
“With a longbow?”
He nodded. “First in the belly, then in the side.”
Glory looked around. Most of the gathered workers had pushed back their head coverings, so she could see a few dusty faces wrinkle as they realised something about that story wasn’t quite right.
“What about the others?” asked Winter. “How did they die?”
Several men responded at once, pressing closer to Winter. “Connor tied himself up and jumped off the dam. He’d bound rocks to his feet to make sure he’d drown. A fisherman hooked him two days later, in the shade where the dam meets the mountainside. Good fishing there. I once caught a trout big enough to feed a family of four.”
“Little Rob cut off his head with an axe.”
“If the rest of you are any indication, he won’t miss it.” Glory sighed. “Did Billy say anything about what he was doing, or where this new foreman had taken him?”
“They were all sworn to secrecy.” The woman spat in the dirt. “I noticed his boots were muddy, though. It’s not rained in five days.”
So they were working somewhere wet and presumably hidden from view. “The other men who died—Connor and the Big and Little Robs—they were on this secret project as well?”
“That’s right.”
“Thank you for your help, milady.” Sterling captured the woman’s hand and brought it to his lips, leaving a kiss-shaped smudge in the dust on her skin. “The truth is a powerful weapon, and we shall use it to strike down all who threaten Brightlodge. And Grayrock too, of course.”
“I don’t know about all that, but if you need any other kind of help, you know where to find me.” She winked and blew Sterling a kiss.
“Keep your sword in its sheath,” Glory snapped. “We’ve work to do.”
The Mayor had lied to them. As a Hero, she intended to build such a reputation that no one would dare try to play her for a fool. That meant letting the world know what happened to those who tried.
Sterling cleared his throat and nodded towards her hand, where red light shone through the cracks between her fingers. “On you, dear Glory, even rage is like the beauty of a fresh-bloomed rose. I’ve no doubt you could make a man welcome death. But before you bring the Mayor’s tower down around his head, keep in mind that it’s difficult to extract information from a corpse.”
“Difficult, but not impossible.” Glory quenched her magic and flashed a brilliant smile. “I’m not interested in killing him. Merely in persuading him to tell us the truth.”
The Mayor’s tower was a round, two-storey building on the edge of the town square, with a single wooden doorway and a series of arched windows on the second floor.
“You really think the Mayor’s plotting against Brightlodge?” asked Winter. “He doesn’t come across as the evil-mastermind type.”
“Oh, Winter.” Glory gave her a too-friendly smile. “You of all people should be careful about judging others by their appearance.”
Winter matched her expression. “Oh, but I judge for so much more than just looks.”
“The door’s locked,” said Sterling. “I don’t see movement through those windows.”
“Allow me.” Shroud pulled out what looked like a small knife handle with a series of metal rods folded into the hilt. He unfolded one of the rods and crouched in front of the lock.
“Excellent,” said Sterling. “Winter, why don’t you stay to assist Shroud in his endeavours, while Glory and I visit the Mayor’s home.”
Subtlety was not one of Sterling’s strengths. Not that there was any need for him to play peacemaker. Winter might be an unmannered rube,
but she was still a Hero. Not a particularly impressive one, perhaps, but presumably useful nonetheless.
The Mayor and his family lived two streets over, just north of the square. Their house was twice the size of any other in Grayrock, which wasn’t saying much. Smoke rose from the chimney, and Glory heard children arguing inside.
The woman who answered the door had a face like creased leather. She wore a dark green bodice and skirt over a white chemise. Nothing fancy, but a far sight nicer than the average quarry worker. “What is it?” she asked warily.
“Is the Mayor home?” Glory smiled. “We had a few more questions about the Ghost of Grayrock.”
“Haven’t seen him. He usually gets in after me and the boys have gone to bed, and lately he’s been out the door before the rest of us have had a chance to rub the sleep grit from our eyes.”
“Missus …” Glory waited for the woman to provide her name.
“Mrs. Mayor, please.”
“Really?” Glory looked past her into the house. “Is there a Mayor Junior running around back there? Perhaps playing with his sister Mayora?”
Her eyes narrowed. “What do you want with Mayora? Has she been snogging with that no-good rock-for-brains Kris again?”
“What my fellow Hero means to say is that your husband is obviously a gentleman of fine taste.” Sterling’s bow included so many flourishes it was practically a dance routine. “Where might we find him at this hour, to seek his wisdom and counsel?”
“I couldn’t say.” The woman was clearly nervous, fidgeting and refusing to meet anyone’s eyes. But was she nervous because she knew what her husband was up to, or simply intimidated by the two Heroes who had shown up at her door?
Glory folded her arms and waited, stretching out the silence before finally saying, “Mrs. Mayor, your husband lied to me. I find this upsetting. How upset I become depends on how long it takes me to find him, and how many obstacles I have to overcome in the meantime.”
The woman drew herself up. “Are you threatening me, missy?”
“Yes.” Glory opened her hand and concentrated. Mrs. Mayor leaned closer, curiosity overpowering fear, as tendrils of red and orange light blossomed from Glory’s palm and spun themselves into the shape of an apple. Flames danced eagerly along the surface.
She tossed the glowing red apple into the air, where it exploded into flames with a sound like a miniature thunderclap. Heat washed over Glory’s face, and Mrs. Mayor’s hair whooshed back as if blown by a powerful wind.
“You and your husband are important people. Possibly the most powerful people in all of Grayrock.” Glory made a show of wiping the dust from her hand. “We aren’t from Grayrock.”
“Now, now.” Sterling winked at the Mayor’s wife. “You’ll have to forgive my companion. She gets terribly jealous whenever I pay the slightest attention to another beautiful woman.”
“Keep it up,” commented Glory. “I’ll make sure you’re unable to gift a woman with your … attention … ever again.” She peeked past Mrs. Mayor to the small wooden bench sitting on one side of the entryway. A drying puddle of grey mud outlined a pair of boot prints. The people at the quarry had mentioned Billy’s boots being muddy too. “Does your husband have an office in his home?”
“He does, but he doesn’t let anyone else in, not even me or the children.”
Glory strode past, ignoring her protests. A pair of young children played beneath the kitchen table, while a young woman—another daughter, or perhaps a servant—roasted quail over a fire. Two doors in a back hallway opened into bedrooms. The third was locked.
Sterling turned to go. “I can bring Shroud to—”
“No need.” Glory conjured a smaller apple and tossed it onto the door. The explosion splintered much of the wood and part of the surrounding wall. The smouldering latch fell with a dull clunk.
“Oh dear.” Mrs. Mayor stomped on the tiny, smoking embers on the floor. “He’s going to be so angry about this.”
Glory paused. “If he threatens to lay so much as a finger on you, kindly tell him I’ll be along to burn it off.”
“You can do that?” She looked over her shoulder. “Tell me, have you ever done babysitting work?”
Glory didn’t dignify that with a response. She stepped into the small office and looked about. There wasn’t much here worth guarding: a small pouch of coins, an old sword desperately in need of oil and a whetstone, and a map of Grayrock spread out on a wobbly table. Crude sketches showed plans for what appeared to be a tunnel beneath the dam.
“What are they digging for?” asked Glory.
The woman took a step back. “All he told me was that we’d finally have the lives we deserved.”
“Either money or power,” she guessed. It always came down to one of the two. “Whatever he’s doing, he doesn’t want anyone else finding out. That’s why he killed those men, to protect his secret.”
“To be fair, we don’t know the Mayor was behind those deaths,” said Sterling, but he sounded dubious.
Mrs. Mayor shook her head, her face pale. “He wouldn’t—you’re lying. It was the ghost.”
“No doubt she’s involved too, whoever she is,” Glory said. “And we’ll deal with her as well. But your husband is helping her.”
“You’re wrong.” The Mayor’s wife folded her arms and steeled herself. “She’s the true evil. That woman is worse than a ghost. She’s a creature of death and smoke and darkness. She steals the innocent from their beds and lures good people to their destruction. If my husband has done these things, it’s only because of her.”
Glory had grown up watching her father negotiate with customers and fellow traders. She’d learned more than he ever imagined, including when to push and when to offer kindness. “You might be right,” she said gently. Having taken the woman’s mental balance, it was time to reel her in. “If so, riches won’t be enough to stop her. The ghost, whatever she is, will continue to endanger Grayrock. Your friends. Your children. You said she destroys good people. Is your husband a good man?”
“He’s …” She hesitated. “Well, I suppose he’s a pretty good man. Doesn’t hog the blankets. Doesn’t usually miss the piss pot in the middle of the night.”
“How charming,” Glory said flatly. “Mrs. Mayor, the fact is, four of the men he’s working with have turned up dead. If not by his hand, then that means the ghost is killing them off one by one. Eventually, it will be his turn.”
“They call us Heroes,” Sterling said, swelling up like a rooster about to crow. “But it falls to you to save your husband’s life. Find your courage and lend us your aid, my dear lady. Tell us what it is your husband seeks and prove yourself a Hero. Rescue the man you love. Rescue all the people of Grayrock. Indeed, from your ruby lips could pour the knowledge that rescues all of Albion.”
Glory rolled her eyes, but his overblown words worked.
“I heard him talking in his sleep a few nights back,” Mrs. Mayor whispered. “He said there was gold buried in the foundation of the dam.”
Glory rubbed her brow. “The Mayor of Grayrock has taken a team to dig away at the dam’s foundation. The dam that’s the only thing stopping the river from flooding this town like an enormous bucket.”
“A little water never hurt anyone,” said Mrs. Mayor. “You’ve seen these people. They could use a good bath.”
Glory turned to leave. “I don’t know whether or not your husband is a good man, Mrs. Mayor. But I can state with certainty that he is a very stupid man.”
CHAPTER 6
SHROUD
Shroud carefully fitted the “Shadow Whisperer” beaver-fur silencer into place. It looked like a fat brown caterpillar trying to engage in unnatural acts with the upper portion of his bowstring, but the fur had proven the best thing for muffling the distinctive twang of his weapon. He finished securing the second silencer to the lower part of the string, tested the draw, and nodded to himself.
As was often the case, he found himself silently repeating the le
ssons and advice of his Conclave masters. He had memorised every word they spoke. His memory was one of many gifts that had propelled him to the top of his class and set him upon the path to becoming the top assassin in all of Albion.
Know your environment. If you’re venturing into caves or tunnels, you’ll often be dealing with a lot of moisture. Traction will be an issue, and too much humidity can harm your bow. Beeswax rubbed into the wood should minimise the damage.
He had already treated the bow. From his pack, he pulled out a pair of what looked like oversized black sandals with leather ties. He stepped onto the first, placing the sole of his boot in the centre of the print, and looped the ties around his foot and ankle. “Sharkskin. Good gripping power, and unlikely to be affected by dampness. They’re useful for climbing, too.”
“We’d like to get inside before sunset,” Glory said.
“A rushed job is a botched job.” He tied the second piece of sharkskin to his other boot and took a few steps to make sure everything was secure. Next, he double-checked the various knives and other tools strapped to his body and tucked away in his cloak. “Proper planning is one of the things that separates the amateurs from the professionals.”
“What are the others?” asked Winter.
“Training. Discipline.” He adjusted his black hood and smiled. “Style.”
He stepped back to assess the dam, which was essentially an oversized curved wall of grey blocks. Darker streaks marked where water had spilled over the top, filling a shallow pond at the base of the dam. Moss and weeds clung to the blocks, thickest near the edges. To one side, the dam merged smoothly into the mountain. To the other, it sheared away to join the wall around the town. A small guard tower stood at the intersection.
The Mayor had tried to hide what he was up to, but it hadn’t been difficult for Shroud to discover the fresh tracks through the gardens at the eastern edge of the pond, or the dying branches piled up to cover the tunnel where the dam met the mountainside.
He pulled a random arrow from his quiver and checked the tip.
“We don’t even know for certain that the Mayor is in there,” said Winter. “And you’re already planning to kill him.”
