Burn Me Deadly: An Eddie LaCrosse Novel

by Alex Bledsoe

  So. Marantz was taking a bunch of citified dragon worshippers to Neceda to join their backwoods brethren in an old whorehouse. That made no sense at all.

  I needed to find out what the hell they were doing, why they were involved with Marantz and who or what “Lumina” might be. I couldn’t just ask to join their caravan, and if I showed myself Marantz’s thugs were as likely to gut me as to chase me off.

  I had only one real chance: get to Neceda before they did, disguise myself as a dragon worshipper with that red scarf I’d taken from Frankie and hope both groups would assume I belonged to the other. That’s all. Simple. Except that they were on the only road between here and town, and in front of me at that. I’d have to go around them through the woods and cut back to the road ahead of them.

  Once they were out of earshot and crossbow range, I turned Pansy toward the woods. “Don’t mess with me,” I said to her; I always suspected that horses understood everything we said, no matter what other people thought. “This is important, and I need you to go fast. Understand?” I patted her neck, then nudged her firmly with my heels.

  She didn’t go fast. She was as annoying and balky as she’d been in the Black River Hills, but at least luck was with me. Marantz’s convoy traveled so slowly we still got ahead of them, worked our way back to the road and reached Neceda first. It was nearly nightfall, so it was unlikely I’d be recognized as long as I avoided my usual haunts.

  My luck continued. Strangers from a recently docked passenger riverboat filled the streets, and with that many new faces in town, I’d blend right in. Unless, I thought wryly, I ran into Gary, Argoset, Marion, Sharky, Angelina or Liz. Maybe I had too many friends here.

  I tied my horse to a hitching post outside Long Billy’s, the tavern that was Angelina’s main competition on the opposite side of town, and headed for Ditch Street. The embers of the stable were still glowing, and a small crowd gathered around them, swapping gossip and innuendo. Some were tourists from the riverboat, getting the lowdown from the local wags. I gave them a wide berth in case someone recognized me, but stopped when I heard a voice ask, “So what can you tell me about the fire and how it started?”

  I stood at the back of the crowd, head down, well aware that every moment I spent here was one less moment to prepare for Marantz’s arrival. The voice made the hairs on my neck stand up, though, and I wanted to know why. Experience had taught me that I ignored such cosmic hints at my own peril.

  The man asking the questions was about my age, dark skinned and with the curly black hair of men from the tropics. He carried the distinctive gear of the Society of Scribes, those independent chroniclers of anything and everything. They served no king or queen, and their accounts of the world’s history were the only ones that preserved things like the long-ago massacre of Fechinians in Arentia or the poisoning of Lord Frank Fisher in Ulkper, which led to the Dandelion Skirmishes.

  They also didn’t waste time with trivial events. Why would one care that Hank’s stable burned down?

  He listened as a young woman described the previous night’s events. She got most of it right, although she included the common belief that Hank torched the place himself. When she finished he smiled paternally and said, “Thank you, young lady. Tell me, did you see anything unusual before the fire started?”

  “Unusual how?”

  The scribe pretended to think. “Oh, I dunno . . . maybe something flying overhead?”

  “Like a bird or something?”

  “Like a bird, yeah.”

  She shook her head. “No, it was dark, and I was . . .” She paused to giggle. “A little tipsy. A girl can’t be serious all the time, you know.”

  He smiled, his irony entirely for himself. “I surely do. Do you think any of your friends saw anything?”

  She looked back at three girls and two boys, all in the first flush of young adulthood, away from home and easy prey to the excesses available in Neceda. They laughed among themselves and one of the boys said, “Naw, we didn’t see anything. Come on, Deedee.”

  “Sorry,” Deedee said as her friends pulled her away.

  The scribe smiled and nodded, then furiously scribbled on a sheet of vellum attached to a large tablet worn on a shoulder strap. “Okay,” he called without looking up, “can anyone else help me out? How about you, sir?”

  He stepped close to a man with long gray hair, who jumped at the sudden attention. I couldn’t hear his words, but he shook his head and waved his hands in front of his face—hands covered by heavy, mitten-like gloves.

  I clenched my fists in frustration. There was the man who’d been haunting my steps since I was injured, now less than a dozen feet away. I also really wanted to know why a scribe was here asking questions. But there was no time. This was one more weird thing to comprehend, and it would have to wait its turn. I made haste to the Lizard’s Kiss.

  The building was completely dark. The front porch was as empty as it had been that morning, and there was no sign of anyone. I put my ear to the door again, but heard nothing. I dropped to my knees and tried peering under it, looking for any sign of light or movement. Perhaps I’d guessed wrong, and Marantz wasn’t coming here after all.

  I slipped around the side to the garden wall. There was a gate, of course, but I was stealthier than that. I heaved myself atop the seven-foot stone barrier and quickly dropped over, landing with reasonable silence in the dark behind a tall bush. I waited to see if my arrival called out the cavalry. All remained silent, so I moved along the shrubbery until I could peek through a gap.

  I’d been right after all. The garden itself was empty, but two torches burned on either side of the slanted doors to the cellar, and a man with a red scarf and a serious-looking curved sword stood guard beside it. He was clearly not a pro: he yawned, bored, not expecting any trouble. He never saw me coming.

  After I whacked him, I propped him against the side of the building, sword still in his hands, so he’d appear asleep. I didn’t know how long he’d be out, but he’d be found as soon as Marantz and company arrived. At least he couldn’t identify me.

  I tied Frankie’s red scarf around my head in the same fashion as the guard. My clothes weren’t as rustic, so I took some mud and smeared it around the cuffs of my sleeves and the bottom of my pants. I was pretty sure I could mimic the accent with no problem. I debated abandoning my sword, but decided if the guard had one, others inside might, too. I carefully lifted the cellar door just enough to slip inside and closed it silently behind me.

  chapter

  THIRTEEN

  T

  he steps were totally dark except for a thin sliver of torchlight seeping in from outside. The sounds of Neceda’s nightlife faded almost at once as I descended. I didn’t know the Lizard’s Kiss stood directly atop bedrock, but the stone walls were hewn, not built, and the uneven steps followed the stone’s weak spots.

  I counted thirty-five steps to the bottom, where another door stopped me. My eyes had adjusted enough to determine that this door was recently installed in place of an older, no doubt less secure one. An iron “x” covered the front, rendering it impenetrable to forced entry: there was no room for a battering ram, and the metal would defend against ax or sword. But when I tried the handle, it opened inward easily and silently on its new hinges.

  Beyond this door, more stairs led to a landing lit by a faint orange glow. I crept down, listening for any sign of life. As I neared the bottom I heard soft, distant voices. The steps ended in a small room, an antechamber outside the arched entrance to a much larger space. The flickering light came from the bigger room.

  The antechamber was a coatroom, with pegs driven into the stone and benches for removing boots. I flattened myself against the wall beside the archway and crept forward until I could peer into the other chamber.

  A natural cave, some fifty feet long and twelve feet high, stretched away from the opening. The floor had been cleared and reasonably leveled for the installation of six rows of benches with an aisle up the mi
ddle. This made seating for around eighty people. At the far end, a raised wooden stage held a podium and a table. A small cage rested on the table; at this distance it appeared to be empty.

  A dozen of the red-scarved men gathered at the front of the benches, casually talking among themselves. Some smoked pipes or sipped from wineskins. One tapped idly on a drum. The light came from a single brazier, although others stood unlit along the walls. Either I’d just missed church or they were waiting for Marantz’s group to arrive before starting.

  That question was answered at once. The outer door above me slammed open, and loud voices announced the caravan’s arrival.

  I looked around for somewhere to duck out of sight. A small door set in the corner formed some kind of closet, so I jumped inside. It was empty, shallow and barely closed over me. I sucked in my stomach and swore I’d go on a diet as soon as this case was over.

  The room quickly filled with Marantz and his men. They sat on the benches with the heavy thud of worn-out travelers. Two of them were on either side of the door I hid behind, mere inches away. “Man,” one of them sighed, “that took forever.”

  “Pilgrims,” the other said with disdain.

  “A bunch with that much money, and they spend all their time walking places. And they pay for the privilege of doing it.”

  “They pay to listen to that weird-ass preacher,” the first man said quietly. “I don’t care what the Big Mace says, that old guy’s gonna get out of hand; you watch.”

  Then, over all this, Marantz bellowed, “What do you mean he’s not here yet?”

  He sounded farther away, like he was inside the ceremonial cave. I couldn’t catch the reply. A moment later he stormed into the antechamber and said, “You two!”

  The men outside my door jumped to their feet. “What’s up?” one of them asked.

  “Our guest of honor is wandering the streets of Neceda looking for a good time. Go get him before he finds it.”

  “What if he doesn’t want to come?”

  “Then convince him!” Marantz roared.

  They went up the stairs. Marantz told someone else, “We have about fifteen minutes before old man Tempcott finishes giving thanks for the safe journey and comes down here. You people better have your act together by then.”

  “We’ve been waiting for him for months,” one of the Black River Hills red-scarves said. “We’re more than ready. Thank you for giving us this place to worship.”

  “Yeah, sure. Thank me by keeping your preacher happy, okay?”

  Any moment someone was likely to open the door and find me, so I turned my back, unbuckled my scabbard and propped it against the back wall. This was not easily done in the cramped space. Then I waited, facing the rear of the closet.

  I stayed that way a long time, sweating under my clothes, fighting down every itch and cramp. At last more people descended, and when the sound of movement and noise seemed to indicate the room was full, I backed out of the closet as if I’d been putting something into it.

  Every time that trick works, I’m a little surprised, but it’s never failed me. I found myself among a collection of weary, dusty young men, all too exhausted to either notice or care where I came from. They collapsed onto the benches or up against the walls, wheezing and gulping water from skins. I leaned back against the door I’d emerged from and slid to the floor, mimicking their tiredness.

  The man on the end of the bench to my right looked at me. His face shone with sweat, and the dark circles under his eyes betrayed his weariness. “I can’t feel my toes,” he said flatly, too tired to sound worried about it.

  “Long walk,” I said noncommittally.

  “I couldn’t even concentrate on the teaching most of the time. It was all I could do to keep moving.”

  “That’s why teachers repeat themselves,” I said.

  He nodded. “You don’t sound tired.”

  “It just doesn’t show,” I assured him.

  “I didn’t see you join the group. Where are you from?”

  “Arentia,” I said honestly, reverting to my proper accent. If he noticed the change, he didn’t mention it.

  “I didn’t know Father Tempcott’s message had reached that far.”

  With all the unctuousness I could summon, I said, “It has if you know where to listen.”

  He nodded, leaned back and closed his eyes. I did the same, peering through my lashes at the others. They reclined against the walls, squeezed onto the benches or sat cross-legged on the floor, filling the little room to capacity. They were all in their twenties or early thirties, unmistakably scions of privilege, yet they did not banter or carry on the way young rich boys often did. Exhaustion only partly explained it—they each had something about them that spoke of sincere spirituality. Whatever they believed, they took it seriously.

  Through the archway, I saw Marantz down by the stage. He seemed to be instructing the backwoods folk on how to arrange things, and they jumped to comply with his orders. He looked harried and exasperated, two things that would not improve his notorious temper. He strode back to the waiting room.

  “On your feet, hummingbirds,” he snapped to us. His glare passed over me for a moment, but he gave no sign he knew I was out of place. “Your prophet is about to make his entrance.”

  We collectively stood. Slow, heavy steps approached down the stairs. Two more of Marantz’s muscle boys preceded the old man, who appeared in the doorway, propped on a cane, his natural glower enhanced by the dim light. “Praise the flame,” the others muttered, and bowed their heads. I copied them.

  “Bring the relics,” he said to Marantz.

  The gangster stiffened, unaccustomed to being treated so cavalierly. But he only said, “Of course,” and nodded for his two men to obey.

  “No!” the old man rasped. He had a really unpleasant voice, and when he raised it, it was hard not to wince. He pointed at Marantz with the finger of his free hand. “You do it. You need a lesson in humility.”

  Every muscle in Marantz’s body tensed, and his men looked at him as if he might pop and shower them with viscera. But he choked it down, nodded assent and said, “Praise the flame,” through his teeth as he went upstairs to follow orders.

  The old man looked at us pilgrims with contempt. “As for the rest of you, the ceremony will begin as soon as he returns. You have until then to recover yourselves.”

  One of the hill people approached the old man and bowed before him. “Father Tempcott,” he said, pronouncing the name carefully. “Welcome to your new temple.”

  “Hmph,” Tempcott said. “As a young man, I attended temples of Lumina and Solarian that rose into the sky like the spires of great mountains. Now we are reduced to scuttling about in holes in the ground, like roaches.”

  “One day, Father Tempcott, all will be restored,” the man said hopefully, his eyes still downcast.

  “One day, yes, the world will burn,” Tempcott agreed. Then he caned past the man and went into the sanctuary.

  Just then Marantz reappeared, staggering under the weight of a rectangular metal case three feet long and two feet square on the ends. It looked solid and old and heavy enough to make carrying it alone a daunting proposition. The cords on Marantz’s neck stood out with the effort, and we all stepped aside so he could stagger into the sanctuary with it.

  More feet shuffled down the steps, and the red-robed women entered, filing past us with their heads down. All but one, that is; she had her hood pushed back far enough to look around, and stole glances at us pilgrims. She was young, probably around sixteen, but there was nothing of the demure religious acolyte about her. Yet she appeared to be neither slave nor captive, although some kinds of captivity don’t always show. They entered the sanctuary and lined up along the back wall.

  One of Marantz’s men stuck his head through the archway. “Okay, boys. Your father is ready for you.”

  We formed two lines and walked down the aisle between the benches. The other braziers had been lit, and their flames spa
rkled off the crystals embedded in the stalactites above us. Two drummers pounded a slow, rhythmic pattern that we immediately adopted as our pace. We filed neatly onto the benches, taking up the first four rows. The hill people took up two more behind us.

  The metal box rested on the altar. Tempcott made his way slowly up the steps to the platform, then crept to the front, the thunk of his cane echoing in arrhythmic counterpoint to the drums. When he reached the lectern, the drummers rose to a crescendo and then stopped. The attendees said in unison, “Praise the flame.”

  Tempcott cleared his throat, propped his cane against the podium and grasped it with both hands. As he opened his mouth to speak, he suddenly froze and squinted toward the back of the cave. “I see our final pilgrim has arrived,” he said with venomous sarcasm.

  We all turned. Marantz and his goons flanked a tall, slender young man fumbling with a red scarf. Marantz helped him tie it in place, a gesture so friendly and kind it seemed completely incongruous. The young man smiled his gratitude. He was well dressed, a little drunk and instantly familiar: Prince Frederick, only son of King Archibald, and heir to the throne of Muscodia.

  chapter

  FOURTEEN

  I

  studied the reaction of the others, trying to get some context. Did they even know their guest of honor? While there were a few whispered comments about his tardiness, he caused no undue surprise. Either they didn’t recognize him or they didn’t care. He was merely another one of their flock.

  I had never met him before, but his image was familiar from the official family portrait hanging in Gary Bunson’s office. Frederick was a tall young man, still thin but with the beginnings of a paunch. His nose and eyes were red even in this light, and a thin sheen of sweat covered his face. Marantz helped him down the aisle to a spot on the first bench evidently kept open for him. He sat with a heavy sigh.