“I asked you to find me a rift spawn, not find out if it was a good kisser,” I replied.
“Funny. Two of my crew won’t be laughing.”
“I’m sorry about that, truly.” I sat down opposite him. “Tell me what happened.”
“We sorted out the general location of three of the fuckers in short order, based on what folks had to say. I set a watch on the areas, three men each. Three wasn’t enough, on Halfmoon Street.” He shifted in his chair and winced.
Keel appeared at the table, silent and stone-faced, with a bottle of wine in one hand and two glasses in the other. He plunked them down on the table without a word and went back to his bed. The wine might have appeared by magic, as much notice as Moc Mien gave Keel. Which I supposed was an improvement. It was a step up from not-so veiled threats of bodily harm, in any case.
Moc Mien poured for both of us, and took a long drink. Set the glass down.
“Halfmoon Street is full of buildings that got slagged the night the Riail fell. You know? Melted like wax?”
I nodded, and he continued.
“Most people who lived there didn’t survive that night. Those who did found somewhere else to doss down soon after. This rift spawn hunts that area pretty regular-like. I figured it must lair there as well. I set three sharp-eyed fellows up on a rooftop that looked safe enough, told them just to watch, see if they could find out where it crawled out of, where it crawled back into.
“A couple hours ago, one of them came stumbling back, torn up something fierce. The thing had snuck up on them, climbed a sheer wall, attacked silent as you please. The fellow that made it back to me got knocked from the roof in the fight, fell two stories to the roof of another building. He got lucky, landing just right. The thing didn’t chase him. He said it sounded like it was too busy making a meal of his mates. I rounded up the rest of the crew and went to see what was what. And to collect the bodies. A decision I’m now regretting.”
“What happened?”
“It was still there.” He shrugged. “I told the boys to wait downstairs while I took a look. I climbed the stairs and had a gander through the door to the roof. Looked like it was taking a nap. Maybe full after a good meal. It woke up sharpish for no reason I could tell and started sniffing the air. I backed down the stairs as quiet as I could, but I guess it got my scent, because it followed with a shriek like you’ve never heard. It caught up with me on the ground floor, we tussled a bit. I lost some skin and blood and it lost some of whatever it is that’s wet and runs through its body. I got out, shut the door. It didn’t try to follow.” He thought for a moment, shrugged. “That’s it.”
“What did it look like?”
“Like nothing I’ve ever seen.”
“Try and describe it.”
He sighed. “If I had to? Like a rock ape from hell, with tentacles in place of its mane. Almost as big as a man. Spider’s eyes. No fur, rubbery blue-black flesh. A long, long muzzle, and black fangs. Agile as a lizard. And a smell. Like burnt sugar and bile.”
I sat silently for a while, considering what he’d told me, trying to determine the best way to approach the thing’s capture. Considering what he’d told me of its behavior, I thought getting it to enter a trap would not be impossible. It seemed quite territorial.
But the fewer the people involved, the better. Then I realized something he’d said might make my life much easier.
“You wounded it?”
“I stuck it. It didn’t seem all that inconvenienced.”
“Do you have the knife you cut it with?”
He gave me a hard, considering look. Then he smiled. “That’s not part of our bargain.”
“You’d charge me for looking at your knife?”
“No. But after you look at it, I have a feeling you’re going to want to borrow it, may be even keep it. And it’s suddenly become my favorite knife, a family heirloom in fact.”
“Dead gods, you and Amra really did grow up together.”
“My great grandpa’s knife. Great sentimental value. Also my lucky charm.” He patted the knife affectionately, where it rested in a thigh sheath.
“Fine. How much?”
“Three hundred.”
“That’s absurd.”
“Great-Gran saved Great Gram from a fate worse than death with this knife. Three fifty.”
“Stop. You win. I’ll get the coin for you before you go.”
“Now’s good.”
I knew when I was beaten. I went up and dug the marks out, returned to the table and stacked them in front of him. He laid the knife on the table.
“I’ll need the sheath as well.”
“My lucky sheath?” he replied, false amazement in his voice.
“Don’t push it,” I said. “You’re already ahead.”
He chuckled and took the sheath off as well. I sheathed the knife and put it in my pocket. I’d see what sort of nastiness I could impress on the blade later.
“Do you know an inn with a signboard sporting a pheckla with a beer in each tentacle?” I asked him.
He nodded. “It’s called ‘Good News, Bad News.’ The News for short. It’s a fucking shithole. Why?”
“I’ll meet you there just after dark tomorrow. Just you. No need for your crew.”
“I should charge you extra for having to be seen there.” He downed the rest of his wine and left without another word.
Twelve
It was perhaps an hour before dawn when I finished with the second net. I’d also come to the conclusion that I didn’t have to do much trickery with the incredibly expensive knife Moc Mien had sold me. What I had planned wasn’t tricky, but it was fairly nasty. I didn’t do anything in preparation beyond verifying the fact that there were indeed traces of the creature’s bodily fluid remaining on the blade, and inside the sheath.
I was deeply tired; too tired to sleep. I have been prone to insomnia for most of my life, and using my power always made it worse. Working with the Art as much as I had over the previous ten days or so was taking its toll. I had a real fear that I would not be mentally acute enough to make sound decisions soon, if I didn’t manage to get something resembling sleep.
You can’t magic yourself to sleep. Or at least I can’t. The Art has strange limitations; limitations unique to each practitioner. Another limitation of mine was the inability to heal, myself or others. Perhaps that spoke of a regrettable lack of empathy on my part, that I could explode flesh but not re-knit it. Or perhaps it simply reflected the truth that it is easier by far to harm than to heal.
My thoughts chased each other down dark corridors and twisting pathways, and refused to come to hand and be still, no matter how firmly I recalled them. Chief amongst them was a longing for Amra. I missed her terribly, and selfishly. She reminded me without even knowing it that the world did not exist solely for me to inhabit it; that there was a reality beyond the confines of my own thoughts and desires, prejudices and peccadilloes, preferences and passions. She reminded me I was part of something much vaster than the contents of my own skull, and that it might actually be meaningful. She kept me from becoming, eventually, something that might well resemble the Telemarch.
In other circumstances I would have gone for a long walk. Sometimes fresh air and stretching my legs helped. But that wasn’t really a sensible option, given the state the city was in and my place in it. And I had no desire to wander the Telemarch’s dry, claustrophobic tunnels and steep stairs again that night.
I went down to the library, picked another book at random from a bottom shelf. I read almost an entire closely-packed, punctuationless page of scribbled madness before I realized it was probably one of the Telemarch’s own journals. It was gibberish. I recognized the individual words as words, but none of it made the slightest bit of sense. It might have been written in code, but somehow I doubted it. I had a suspicion that Aither had believed he was writing down deep thoughts, when in reality he was simply inking unintelligible ravings.
I put the book bac
k in its place and took up the next one on the shelf. It was more of the same. As was the third, and the fourth. Even the individual letters were degenerating into nonsensical shapes in that one. Had he always been mad, I wondered, or had the Knife driven him to the brink, and beyond?
It must have been the latter. A madman could never learn the Art, certainly not to the degree of skill the Telemarch had. I was intimate with quite a few of his workings at this point, and the precision and insight he’d brought to bear on his Art were undeniable. Madness often accompanies genius, true enough, but the scribbles I held in my hand showed no intellect or sense greater than that of a dog’s bark. Perhaps less.
The Knife had twisted his mind until it broke.
Wherever Amra was, the Knife was there was well. Amra, the rift, and the Knife that Parts the Night.
“She destroyed one of the Blades,” I told myself. “She will not be easy meat for this one.” But too much time was passing. Ten days already, and it might be weeks more before I had all I needed to find her. Assuming I survived the gathering.
What would she be like by then, exposed to the Knife?
I looked back down at the leather-bound journal in my hands, and was not in the least comforted.
I put it back in with the other inmates and wiped my hands on my shirt, not wholly because of the dust. I went down to the second level, which, aside from the cloth-covered easel and all my coin, was open and empty enough to pace in without getting dizzy from constant turns.
I paced for perhaps half an hour, thoughts wandering. I wasn’t really conscious of my surroundings, or even my own pacing, in any meaningful way. Not until I bumped against the painting on its easel, and knocked it down.
The way it fell kept the canvas on the easel, while the painting itself slid off the cross member and skimmed along the floor for a short distance. I sighed, bent to pick the painting up—and froze.
Amra’s face looked up at me; those clever, expressive hazel eyes, the furrowed scar that made testament to an injury that had nearly half-blinded her, and the other, lesser scars that surrounded it, that looked to me to be remnants of some deliberate, prolonged torture that she never, ever spoke of. That long, straight nose, those lips that were full and soft in sleep, but almost always compressed into a thin line otherwise.
She stood in a doorway. The same skull-shaped doorway that belonged to the Telemarch’s inner sanctum. She was looking out, directly at me. Behind her, in the background and less visible, stood a girl child. A child with the same bronze skin tone as Tha-Agoth, the same black, curling hair, the same starlight eyes.
It—for some reason I could not bring myself to think of that figure as she—was smiling an unpleasant, knowing smile.
Why had Aither painted this? Did he even know that he’d done so? Had it been the Knife, rather than the Telemarch, who’d actually guided the brush? Too many questions, and not a single answer.
I summoned magelight without really thinking about it, and studied that painting, returning again and again to Amra’s face.
I was still doing so when morning, and Keel, found me.
“There’s a lady at the door,” he informed me.
“Gammond?” I asked, putting the painting away under the canvas again.
He snorted. “Gammond’s no lady,” he replied, and I couldn’t disagree. “She says she’s Lady Gwyllys When,” he continued. “Councilor When’s daughter.”
“What does she want?”
“To see you, if I’m guessing,” Keel replied with a smirk. “Maybe she heard you’d started bathing again.”
“Sarcasm in one so young. What is the world coming to? All right, I’ll let her in, then, if she agrees to come alone.”
#
She was dressed impeccably, the deep decolletage and narrow, corseted waist of her embroidered, pastel green silk dress drawing looks even from phlegmatic Marle. She was handsome rather than pretty; strong jaw, sharp cheekbones. Her hair was piled, pinned and powdered, exposing a pale neck. She was perhaps thirty, and her eyes were clear and green and cunning. Behind her a small contingent of armsmen stood, obviously uncomfortable, wariness practically radiating from them. They were no sell-swords; probably family retainers.
“Magister Angrado, I presume.”
“Lady When.”
“I assume it is polite to invite a lady caller in, even in far Lucernis?”
“Indeed. You are welcome to enter. Your lackeys, however, are not.”
Without hesitation she turned to the men behind her and said “You will wait here.” Then, ignoring their protests, she stepped past me and into the Citadel. I couldn’t decide if it was brave, foolish, or desperate of her.
“Please take a seat,” I said, indicating the table. For a moment she stood still, then gave a small shake of her head and sat in the chair at the head of the table. I realized she’d been waiting for someone to pull her chair out for her. She’d come to the wrong place for that.
I sat to her left, nearer the door, and Marle made wine and glasses and a tiny plate of delicate pastries appear. The man was more of a magician than me. I hadn’t even suspected we’d had anything like pastries.
When’s daughter didn’t touch them, probably because there was no finger cloth. I poured both of us half a glass and helped myself to one of the pastries. Almond. Delicious. I regarded her silently, except for the chewing.
“I would like to discuss private matters with you, magus. Mightn’t your servants make themselves more discreetly available?”
“No.”
She raised a carefully shaped brow. “Very well. I come to you today to sound you out. Soon enough my father will have the low town rabble pacified, and take up the syndicacy.”
“About your father. Where is he?”
“Indisposed. Rest assured I speak with his voice.”
“Oh, I don’t need assurance. It doesn’t matter to me whether you or your father command your forces. I asked only out of curiosity.” Of course she would take my frankness as deliberate rudeness, which I suppose it was to a degree. The truth is often insulting.
She plowed on, though, despite what she must have seen as provocation. Mentally I put her motivation into the desperation category. Provisionally.
“I see you prefer to speak plainly, sir, so I shall oblige you. Once my father’s forces have pacified the rebels, there will only be two powers of note in Bellarius—him and you. I am here to discuss what happens at that juncture.”
“What would your father like to see happen?”
“He sees no reason why the old accords between the Riail and the Citadel should not be renewed. He will rule, and you will do whatever it is that magisters do to pass the time. And neither shall interfere with the other.”
“So in essence, Councilor When is suggesting I sit in the Citadel and do nothing, and that I ignore him, in return for which he will ignore me.”
“To be perfectly plain, magus, we want you sit out the coming conflict, and subsequently refrain from interfering in the politics of the city and the country. We can certainly discuss what sort of remuneration you wish in return. The Telemarch eschewed monetary consideration in favor of more personal services rendered by the state.”
“Such as?”
“The use of the Blacksleeves in killing and abduction. Or so I am informed.”
“And such an arrangement would be open to me as well?”
She waved a hand, clearly disinterested. “I paint a picture for you in bold strokes, sir. The fine details can come later.”
“I see.” I bit into another pastry. Decided I did not like this woman any more than I liked her opponent, Gammond, down in the Girdle. Less, in fact. I changed my mind regarding her motivation in coming inside the Citadel unguarded, as well. It wasn’t desperation. Or bravery, or foolishness. It was just that she couldn’t imagine any danger. In her world, human lives were just various bargaining chips, markers to be pushed back and forth in the great game of power, some worth more than others. Game
pieces did not, could not offer any threat to the players of the game. They simply existed to be manipulated. I was just a game piece with a relatively high value.
As I finished the pastry, I decided I did not want to be manipulated.
“You can tell your father that I find myself utterly uninterested in his offer,” I said, and stood. “Good day to you, Lady When.”
She looked at me as though I had begun speaking Chagan. Then her pale cheeks flushed and her eyes narrowed. In that moment, her aristocratic mask cracked for the briefest moment, and I thought it likely she’d killed her father herself. Or perhaps locked him, shackled and gagged, in a closet. She seemed wholly capable of it. Then the curtain came down again and she was just a spoiled, haughty member of the ruling class once more.
“If I bring that message to him, he will have no choice but to view you as an enemy, sir. Reconsider your reply.”
“That won’t be necessary. My response is firm.”
She flounced out. I’d never seen a real flounce before; I suspect it was because a true flounce required the type of dress she was wearing. Something to do with full skirts.
“Was that really for the best?” Keel asked after I shut the door.
“Almost certainly not,” I replied, “but it felt good.” And I hadn’t felt good about much of anything since Amra had left for Bellarius on Halfa’s Night.
If the gods were kind, When and Gammond would tear each other down to their foundations, and other, less brutal souls would pick up the pieces. But the gods are rarely kind.
“Gentlemen,” I said to the three men who had taken my coin and the boy who’d taken my cause, “leaving the Citadel through the front door has just become a dangerous proposition. Lady When will almost certainly either put the Citadel under siege or detail assassins to ambush any who come or go.”
Thon cleared his throat, and I gave him a look inviting him to speak.
“Why would she do that? She’ll need all the arms she can muster to assault the Girdle. Town fighting is dirty business.”
“She came here to try and take me out of the game. I’m willing to wager it’s because she has no magic of her own, but that’s immaterial. She’s weighed the odds and decided, now that Steyner’s dead, she has the strength of arms necessary crush the rebels, so long as I do not interfere. She tried to induce me to remain neutral, as you heard, again because of Steyner, or rather what I did to him. Now that I’ve refused, she has no choice but to try and contain me. Either directly via siege, or indirectly by taking one or more of you hostage.”
The Thief Who Wasn't There Page 9
