Maedora walked around the table toward Salim. Though the body underneath the shroud was flawless, her hips had no seductive roll, and her feet made no sound on the floorboards. As she drew near, the physical size of her grew more and more imposing, and the shifting patches of shadow that moved across her wrappings resolved themselves into thousands of tiny black spiders that rippled and flowed in precise movements. She loomed over his chair.
"You really should be more polite," Ceyanan noted. "After all, you and Maedora are in the same line of work."
"Oh?" Salim asked.
"Hunting." The voice that emerged from beneath that mask was soft, arch, and as cold as the grave.
"She's an inquisitor," Ceyanan explained. "Like all her kind. They gather evidence to aid in judgments, and hunt down and destroy would-be immortals and those who trade in stolen souls."
"And atheists." Maedora placed a single finger on Salim's neck. Cold raced across his skin, raising gooseflesh all down his side. "The faithless can't be allowed to corrupt the Inner Court."
Salim crooked a smile at her. "Of course."
"Maedora will be investigating the murders as well."
Salim gave Ceyanan a sharp look. "I don't need a partner."
"And you're not getting one," the angel replied coolly. "I'm afraid the situation is more complicated than that. You see, while I've been given charge of this investigation, there are certain factions within the Inner Court that have a different point of view."
"Fifty-three souls," Maedora said. "Their return is too important to trust to a mortal."
"Spare my feelings, why don't you?" Salim looked to Ceyanan. "So you're running both of us against each other?"
The angel shook its head. "Not against. Merely in parallel. You both work best alone, so you'll work alone. I trust you won't interfere with each other, and will share information as benefits the aims of the Boneyard. It's simple division of labor. For instance, in light of the Lamasaran debacle, Maedora will be handling all interactions with the local Pharasmin congregation."
"Excuse me?" Salim asked. "As I recall, I successfully retrieved the kidnapped soul and rooted out corruption in the church."
"By nearly burning it down," Maedora pointed out. "Several of the faithful were injured defending the cathedral."
"And promptly healed each other up, good as new," Salim countered.
"Nevertheless," Ceyanan said, "the Kaer Magan cathedral will not be subject to your special breed of etiquette. Maedora will be the Boneyard's liaison in this matter."
"Fine." Salim had no desire to deal with a bunch of stiff-necked priests anyway. "Then where do you want me to start?"
"Wherever you can," Ceyanan said.
"You know, for spirit guides, both of you interpret the ‘guide' part pretty loosely."
The web-wrapped thing called Maedora moved closer—very close. She hunkered down so that her face was just above Salim's, forcing him to tilt his head back to meet the blank, gauzy expanse that hid her eyes.
Salim wondered how many eyes that mask actually hid.
"Listen well, Salim Ghadafar," Maedora whispered. The web wings spread out behind her to block the light, casting them both in shadow. "Your service has been noted, but your insolence as well. Ceyanan may tolerate such things, but I will not. Stay out of my way, and find your own leads as best you can. If you interfere with my investigation, you will be removed. Permanently."
Despite the shivers tracing lightning arcs up and down his spine, Salim had to smile. "Are you threatening to fire me?" he asked. "Because if so, I'm not sure you did your homework."
"There are worse fates than death, Salim," Maedora hissed. "You of all people should know that."
"Believe me, I do." Bending sideways so that he could see past the shield of gray wings, Salim said, "I see why you wanted her involved, Ceyanan. She's clearly a people person." He straightened and stood, moving the chair back so he could look the stooping psychopomp in the eye.
"With all due respect to your charming personality," he said, "I think you might want to find a cloak or something. This whole ‘winged mummy' bit might not put your informants at ease."
Maedora's lips quirked up in a smirk, and she drew back. "The dead are rarely so squeamish. But you have a point."
She raised a hand, and the spiders that had been congregating in little pockets around her body converged on it, covering it in a writhing glove. She whispered something, and the spiders rolled down her arm and over her body in a seething tide, expanding out over her wings, devouring the webbing as they went. When the swarm reached the fingers of her other hand, it disappeared.
The psychopomp was gone. In her place stood a human woman in her early thirties, with pale skin and a stern face. She wore fitted pants and a shirt of a military cut, as well as high boots, all of them black. A gray cape hung from broad, straight shoulders, secured by a clasp in the shape of a spiral. Only the long black hair remained unchanged.
She crossed her arms. "Better?"
Her new shape was attractive, in a no-nonsense sort of way, and wouldn't draw any attention beyond the usual. Yet there was still a blankness in the eyes. A dead thing, wearing the shape of a woman.
Salim nodded.
"Remember what I said." The new Maedora's voice was the same as the winged giant's. "I'll be seeing you."
Then she turned and walked out the door.
Salim watched the door shut, trying to get a grasp on how his day had suddenly become so complicated. Eventually he turned back to Ceyanan. "Nice company you're keeping these days."
"Whatever serves the Lady."
"Yeah, I know. So what's the point?"
"What do you mean?" the angel asked innocently.
Salim hooked a thumb at the door. "Why am I here, if you've got spider-lady on the job?"
"It's complicated." For the first time in their long acquaintance, Salim thought the angel sounded tired.
"Everything's complicated," Salim observed.
Ceyanan spread its hands. "The Lady has many servants. I represent one division, Maedora another. Sometimes we disagree on how best to proceed. When that happens, the Lady often sees fit to let us sort things out among ourselves."
"So I'm just a game piece," Salim said.
"When has it ever been otherwise?"
The angel never failed to get under Salim's skin. "So what if your horse decides not to run?"
"I'm afraid that would go very poorly for the horse," Ceyanan replied. "Horses that refuse to run end up at the knacker's. But you don't have to worry about that."
Salim waited expectantly.
"Your pride, Salim. The same thing that led you to us in the first place. The pride that led you to try to handle the Lamasaran situation on your own, in order to impress that noble girl, and nearly cost you both your lives. What was her name? Neila?"
The word was like a stone in Salim's chest. "You leave her out of this."
Ceyanan waved the issue aside. "It doesn't matter. You'll run because Maedora said you weren't good enough, and thus your desire to spite her is momentarily greater than your desire to spite me."
Salim started to respond, then realized it was true. As much as he resented Ceyanan, the goddess, and everything about his joke of an existence, part of him did want to solve the mystery—all because Maedora had told him he couldn't. Perhaps she was a better inquisitor than he'd thought.
Besides, his real problem was with the goddess herself, and both Maedora and Ceyanan were part of her coterie. Which toe he stepped on was irrelevant.
Ceyanan nodded as if Salim had replied. "I've left the necessary funds with Canary House's owner. I suspect you'll need them, unless those thieves earlier were kind enough to refill your purse."
Salim frowned. "So you were watching that."
"Always."
That spark of anger again. "I could have been killed."
"No," Ceyanan said. "You couldn't. I believe we've already proved that point."
Trust the angel to
find a way to work that in. "Go to hell, Ceyanan."
The psychopomp smiled.
"But Salim, that's what I have you for."
paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas
Chapter Four
The Twice-Born
Salim stepped out the front door of Canary House, a newly heavy purse weighting down the inner pocket of his robe. Outside, the bustle of the street seemed louder than it had before, a sharp contrast to the songs of the caged girls inside.
A'kaan had been busy entertaining several of his guests—a woman with purple hair and sleek leather armor, and a man so fat he seemed ready to burst out of both his skin and his straining robes—and thus Salim had approached the halfling bartender instead. The diminutive man was dressed even better than his employer in a formal black vest and gray trousers, with several tasteful silver chains running between the pockets. His feet, bare in the tradition of his people and covered in curly brown hair, tapped lightly on his catwalk as he dried a glass with a swatch of silk. He introduced himself as Moggan.
"Salim," Salim said. "I believe you have something waiting for me."
The halfling didn't even blink, simply reached under the bar as if he'd been waiting for precisely this moment and lobbed over the purse. Salim caught it, grunting in approval at its weight. He tucked it away.
"Will you be needing a room, sir?" Moggan replaced the glass in the hanging rack above him and draped the cloth over one shoulder. "A'kaan said you might be staying for some time."
"He's correct." Salim hadn't actually thought that far ahead, but no doubt Ceyanan had. As much as it galled him to follow the angel's plan, stated or otherwise, he had to admit that there were far worse lodgings than Canary House. He pulled a number out of the air. "Perhaps a week."
"Very good, sir." The bartender stepped backward off the ledge and disappeared, his three-foot-tall frame swallowed by the chest-high mahogany bar. Salim leaned over the counter just in time to see the little man swing himself deftly back onto the catwalk, a lemon-yellow key in his hand. He held it out. "Third floor, room seven. Just pull the bell if you need anything."
Salim accepted the key and reached for his recently acquired pouch, but Moggan caught the motion and shook his head. "No need for that, sir. Master A'kaan has already made arrangements with your church to cover your stay, and whatever else you may require."
Better and better. Salim thanked him and turned to go.
"And your friends, sir? Will they be needing rooms as well?"
For a second, Salim had no idea what the barman was talking about. His closest friends were oceans away. Worlds. Lifetimes.
Then it clicked. "Ah, no. Or at least, I don't think so. The dark-haired woman, perhaps. I'm not sure what her plans are. But the others won't be returning."
Moggan just nodded, as if making room arrangements for angels and devils were something he did every day. Salim had to admire the man's poise.
They wouldn't be back, though. Of that, Salim was sure. It wasn't Ceyanan's way to stick around and help. The angel simply delivered the jobs; after that, Salim was on his own, up to his elbows in whatever mess the angel had dropped him into this time. When it was all over, and the tears and blood had dried, the angel would be back with a wry joke and a condescending pat on the head, reminding Salim that it was all in a day's work as a servant of Pharasma. And then it would send him somewhere else.
Salim felt the fire building in him again, and turned away before the halfling accidentally caught it. "Thanks," he said over his shoulder, and this time the barman let him go.
Now he was outside, breathing in the dung, sweat, and smoke that was the flavor of cities everywhere. Salim paused on the doorstep, getting his bearings, and saw several people in the line of potential guests looking at him with a mixture of jealousy and anticipation, clearly hoping that his departure meant there was a newly open space for them inside. He stepped out of the way, and the half-orc doorman nodded to him amiably. Apparently anyone A'kaan allowed inside was worthy of the bouncer's respect.
"Anyone I can call for you, sir?" The doorman spoke in a surprisingly cultured bass. "A porter? Guide? Sedan chair?"
"A guide would be perfect," Salim said. "Thank you."
The half-orc bobbed his head, then pursed lips around protruding tusks and blew a whistle blast that nearly deafened Salim.
A figure dispatched itself from the crowd and ran up. It was a boy, perhaps fifteen, with bare feet so dirty and road-hardened that they might have been leather moccasins. His clothes weren't much better, just shreds and patchwork, but beneath them his back was as straight as any noble scion.
"Ah, Karus, you handsome scholar—your dulcet tones have summoned me like a sailor to a siren. What might this humble prince of the groundlings offer you today?"
The half-orc snorted, but the sound was clearly affectionate. He hooked a thumb at Salim. "This gentleman is in need of a guide."
"Of course, of course." The boy turned to Salim and bowed low, tugging one sandy lock of hair out of its bird's nest and pulling on it respectfully. "The name's Gav, my lord, and whatever you may have heard about me, I assure you it is both absolutely true and a crass understatement. What you need, I can find, and what I find, you may find you need. Many claim to know this city, but to me, she's like my own wife." He looked up and winked. "And for a handful of copper, gov, she's yours for the night."
Karus laughed for real this time and kicked at the boy, who danced easily out of reach. "Enough of your filth, boy. Can't you see he's a holy man?"
"A priest who can't take a joke is no priest at all," the boy opined. "For what is life but a joke, and a cruel one at that?"
"You make a fine point," Salim broke in, "but I'm afraid I'm in the market for a guide, not a philosopher."
"And you've found one!" Gav's narrow chest puffed out like a pigeon's. "The best street-runner the Warren's ever produced. And today only, because you're a servant of the blessed Gray Lady and obviously respected by my good associate Karus here, I'll throw the philosophy in for free, though it steals bread from the mouths of my yet-unfathered children."
Karus rolled his eyes. "He's telling the truth, sir. If you can stand his chatter, he's a fine guide, and more honest than most in this city."
"Good enough." Salim flipped a small coin to the half-orc. The doorman caught it without looking and turned back to scrutinizing his line. "Come," Salim said to the boy, then picked a direction at random and began walking.
The boy materialized at his side, keeping pace with an easy lope. "A man of action, neh? I like that in a client—straight to the point, without a lot of jawing. Commendable."
Salim said nothing. Inside, he was still gathering his thoughts, combing through what little Ceyanan and the devil had given him to work with.
"Quiet, too. That says a lot about a man, it does. They say that a man who keeps his opinions to himself is right most of the time. Most people open their mouths and all their brains fall out."
Salim began to wonder if he'd made a mistake. The boy opened his own mouth to continue chattering, and Salim snatched at the first thing to come to mind.
"Corpses."
The boy paused, then glanced sideways at Salim. "Beg pardon, sire?
"Corpses," Salim said again, and even as he said it, an idea began to take shape in his mind. "Dead people. Where do they end up?" It wasn't much to go on, but when dealing with a murder, best start by going where the bodies were.
"Of course," Gav said easily, as if it were a request he got all the time. "Corpses. Right. Well, that depends a lot on the nature of your particular stiff. If'n a family has money, then the dearly departed are usually taken to your people down at the Godsmouth Cathedral." He gestured at the amulet hanging on Salim's chest, the silver spiral of Pharasma catching the sun. "The priests there do 'em up proper and take 'em down the cliff to the ossuary. If money's tight, though—and really, when isn't it?—most folks end up smoked at Heaven's Ladder, down i
n Cavalcade."
"Smoked?"
The boy pointed south, and Salim noticed a greasy black pillar of smoke drifting up and out past the city's walls, where the updraft off the cliff caught it and tugged it high into the sky.
"Ah." No point bothering with either of those, then—ash wouldn't tell him anything, and the Pharasmin cathedral was Maedora's turf. "And what about those with no family? No money?"
"Some of those still end up climbing the ladder," Gav said, nodding toward the smoke. "The gnome who runs the place is a charitable sort, if a bit eccentric—but then, aren't they all, neh? The rest end up washed over the cliff, or sold to the necros up in Ankar-Te."
"Necromancers?" Salim had heard rumors that dark spellcasters worked in the city, some of them even conducting their trade openly, but he'd presumed most of that was hyperbole, especially considering the presence of a Pharasmin church in the city.
"Who else?" Gav eyed Salim sidelong. "Not that people don't honor the Lady of Graves, but life's tough, and the necros pay hard coin for cold bodies. Most folk don't like the idea of their dead sister walking around or turning tricks at the White Lady, but money is money. And there's always a few coppers to be made fishing folks what met a bad end out of the rivers down in the Bottoms."
The rivers. Ceyanan had mentioned something about that. "Take me to the necromancers."
"Can do, gov." The boy stopped abruptly, and Salim was several feet beyond him by the time he turned.
"All apologies," the boy said, grinning, "but you're going the wrong way." He pointed north, back the way they had come.
Salim spread his hands and bowed, mimicking Gav's own overwrought gestures. "In that case, I cede command of this expedition to its more experienced member." He straightened. "Lead the way."
∗ ∗ ∗
The two headed north, not precisely back to Canary House, but through a web of narrow alleys winding between buildings of similar function, if not quality. Inns of wood and brick leaned against brothels and shops like drunken soldiers using each other to remain upright, and colored lanterns littered eaves and porches, waiting for dusk. Prostitutes, male and female and anywhere in between, leaned out of windows or lounged against railings. Most were the run-of-the-mill catamites and doxies found in any city, but a few were something else entirely. On one balcony, a tattooed harpy perched in a birdlike squat, wings spread and all-too-human physiology clearly visible. Beneath an awning farther down, a centaur mare wearing a low-cut blouse preened and postured, her enormous equine hindquarters displayed prominently. Though Salim had worked with plenty of horses in his lifetime, including mares in heat or ready to drop foals, he'd never before thought of a horse in this particular context, and quickly looked away.
Pathfinder Tales: The Redemption Engine Page 4
