Pathfinder Tales: The Redemption Engine

by James L. Sutter

  "Weird to see the Freemen putting someone in chains, no?" Gav asked.

  "Maybe he was a slaver," Salim said, but something about the armor looked familiar...

  Then he had it. "He was in the bar. Canary House. He had another man with him—a collared slave."

  "Ah," Gav said. "Well, good riddance to him, then. Slaving's a filthy way to make a coin."

  The gate guard and one of the men from the cart led the prisoner through the door and shut it behind them. The remaining man hopped up onto the seat and drove the cart back out of the alley and onto the street. Salim and Gav pulled back into the shadows as he passed.

  When he was out of sight, Gav leaned casually back out of their alley, eying the guards warily. "You're not thinking of trying to talk your way in there, are you, gov?"

  Salim shook his head, and Gav relaxed visibly.

  "No," Salim said, "I'm pretty sure there won't be any talking involved."

  paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas , Aug 10, 2014

  Chapter Twelve

  The Redemption Engine

  Salim crouched in the alley, now little more than a dark crack in the starlit night. A few people still passed by on the street, but these were different from those of the daytime—they moved with caution and purpose, either eager to get to their destinations or hoping to find an easy mark. Night was not a safe time to be out and about in Kaer Maga.

  None of them looked in Salim's direction. Though he'd rejected the idea of blackening his face with soot—too conspicuous while crossing the street—his dark robes hid him nearly as well in the unlit side streets. He'd been watching the manor house for at least twenty minutes, looking for any changes in the guards or shapes moving in its several lit windows. If anyone had so much as glanced in his direction, there'd been no sign of it.

  Gav had been more than happy to sit out this part of the job. While clearly concerned for Salim's safety—"You're not a bad sort, gov, and I'd hate to find you stitched up and cleaning ditches for the necros"—Gav had stayed true to his earlier assertion that continued existence was at the top of his priority list, with everything else a distant second. Salim was fine with that. He worked best alone, and doubted the boy could have shut up long enough to survive an infiltration anyway.

  The guards at the front gate were different than those who had been there earlier, but they seemed just as nonchalant, chatting quietly together. That was good.

  Not that he'd be going in through the front door. Without bothering to pull up his cloak's hood—after all, nobody here knew who he was or that he was coming—he stepped from his alley and walked across the broad avenue to the smaller alley running between the compound and the houses to the right of it, where he and Gav had watched the cart pull up and deposit its prisoner. During the day, that gate had only had one guard. With any luck, that would be true of the evening shift as well.

  No one challenged him as he walked down the deserted alley, staying on the side opposite the compound. As he drew even with the side-gate's alcove, however, he found it empty.

  No, not just empty. Moonlight crept through the crack where the wooden door hung ajar.

  Salim moved quickly across the cobbles and into the alcove's shadows. Hand on sword hilt, he pushed the door open. It swung perhaps two feet, then hit something and stopped. Through the gap, Salim could see more of the manor's narrow grounds, a mixture of stone paths and raised garden beds.

  At his feet was an arm. It lay unmoving on the stone, peeking out from behind the door.

  Salim turned sideways and slipped inside.

  The guard lay in a crumpled heap. He had been a big man, bald and tattooed, but that hadn't helped him here. The sword lying next to him was still clean. Three neat round holes the size of coins punched through his chest, and a fourth burrowed through his throat. Now that he was looking, Salim could make out the darker streaks on the stone where the body had been dragged inside.

  Salim looked up just in time to see a shadow detach itself from the manor's wall and swing in through an open window on the third and highest floor, flashing gray in the lamplight before it moved out of view.

  Maedora? As quickly as the thought came, Salim dismissed it. He didn't know much about the morrigna, but this didn't feel like her style. Sneaking seemed beneath her. Which meant that someone else had a problem with Caramine's operation—someone who didn't mind killing a guard in cold blood. Interesting.

  Salim left the body and moved quickly into the shadow of the manor itself. There was a door nearby, this one closed, but as Salim considered it, he found himself drawn to the window ledge overhead.

  Whoever the other intruder was, he had style. Going in from the top would take the residents by surprise that much more, and if an alarm were raised, everyone would look to the ground floor entrances, never suspecting that the danger was already among them, working its way down from the top.

  Rather than make his own way in, thus doubling their chances of discovery, Salim pushed up his sleeves and faced the wall. While the window was twenty feet straight up, the brickwork was sloppy, with inconsistencies in the mortar and the size of the bricks. Combined with the protrusion of several external chimneys, it was practically a ladder for thieves.

  Salim took the same route as the gray figure, positioning himself in the ninety-degree angle where a chimney met the wall. Fingers stiffened into claws found gaps in the mortar and pulled him up quickly, one booted foot braced against the wall and the other against the chimney. In no time at all he was level with the open window, a few feet below the slanting roof. The shutters looked too weak to grab, but a convenient overhanging gutter made a far better handhold than simple brickwork. Salim got both hands over the stone lip and swung out into space, then twisted and flung himself feet-first through the open window. He landed softly on the floor in a crouch, hands going to sword and scabbard, ready to draw.

  The room was empty. A single lamp burned on a side table, illuminating a low couch and a table with several chairs. A stack of blank paper and a pen and inkwell lay untouched on the table.

  Some sort of study. Salim didn't bother investigating, but instead moved cautiously through the open door and out into a long, lantern-lit hallway.

  Nothing moved. Elsewhere in the house, several voices were talking in conversational tones. Clearly the dead guard hadn't been noticed yet.

  To Salim's left, the hall proceeded past two more doors before ending in a small window and an end table supporting a potted plant. To his right, it continued for significantly longer before turning a corner. Salim opted to follow the hall, concentrating on keeping his footsteps silent. Fortunately, the construction was new enough that the boards didn't creak. Yet as he concentrated, Salim found that there was another noise beneath the distant voices, so low as to be almost imperceptible: a deep, bass hum, buzzing up through the floor and coming to rest in Salim's bones.

  Salim reached the corner. Several of the voices that had been distant before were louder now. Slowly, he peeked his head around.

  The hallway traveled straight again for a good distance before ending in a set of stairs leading down through the middle of the floor. Around them, a waist-high railing sectioned off the rest of the landing, allowing residents to skirt around the stairs and access the rooms on either side.

  Two men leaned against the railing, both tall and broad. The swords at their waists seemed at odds with their simple, inexpensive clothing. They stood with thick arms crossed, deep in conversation.

  Perhaps there was another way down, but if so, Salim hadn't seen it. Judging by the men's posture, the conversation had been going on for some time. So how had Salim's gray-cloaked predecessor made it past them?

  Blood exploded from the men in arcing gouts. Both stumbled and staggered, clutching at the sudden holes punched through their chests and arms by glowing missiles.

  Above them on the room's high ceiling, a gray-wrapped shape appeared where none had been a moment before—a figure on all fou
rs, clinging to the ceiling like an insect. Dagger drawn, it let go and dropped down on top of the two men, driving them to the floor.

  The first man never had a chance. Already gasping the characteristic gurgle of a punctured lung, he barely had time to clear his scabbard before the man in gray untangled himself enough to drag the dagger across the guard's staining throat, putting him out of his misery a few minutes early.

  The other man, however, reacted with the reflexes of a soldier, or at least a veteran brawler. Ignoring the wounds that left one arm dangling, he slammed forward into his much smaller attacker, chopping the stiffened edge of his hand axelike across the infiltrator's wrist. With a squawk of pain, the attacker dropped his blade, then ceased making noise altogether as the guard wrapped his good arm around the intruder's neck, closing off his windpipe. Pressed together like lovers, chest to back, the bigger man choked the smaller one, heedless of the hands that slapped and scratched frantically at his head and face, their movements growing steadily weaker and more erratic.

  All of this in a space of a few heartbeats. Salim watched, taking it in. He owed nothing to either side. For all he knew, the little man was a slaver out for vengeance for profits lost, or a necromancer here to steal the stolen souls—certainly he'd killed easily enough, from hiding and with magic. Yet he'd led Salim well so far...

  Salim drew his sword and stepped out from around the corner, moving unhurriedly toward the struggling figures. The guard looked up, and there was just time to see the confusion in his eyes before Salim brought his sword's sturdy basket hilt down on the back of the man's head. Eyes showed white, and the man slumped bonelessly to the floor.

  The man in gray ripped the arm from around his neck and scrabbled away, gasping in huge ragged lungfuls of air. He stopped a few stairs down, his back against the wall, staring wild-eyed at Salim.

  And the eyes were all there was to see. While Salim could tell that the man was small and slim, his entire body was wrapped in close-fitting gray shirt and pants, his head covered with a hood and nose and mouth veiled with taut cloth, leaving only ice-blue eyes and a strip of pale skin exposed.

  Salim was surprised to find that he recognized him. "What are you doing here?"

  The man's throat bobbed as he tested it. "Partner," he croaked. Then, firmer, "They took my partner."

  "The big man," Salim agreed. "The one they took earlier today. I saw you with him at Canary House."

  The man leaned to the side and coughed, pulling his veil aside to spit on the floor, then turned back. "They thought I was his slave."

  Salim nodded, though of course he'd thought the same thing.

  Outside, someone started shouting.

  "They've found the body," Salim said. He grabbed the man by one arm and hauled him to his feet. "Do you know where you're going?"

  The little man shook his head, then leaned down to recover his crescent-bladed dagger, tucking it into his belt.

  "All the more reason to move quickly." Not bothering to sheathe his sword, Salim turned and loped down the stairs, into another long hallway. Halfway down it, the veiled man caught up, making remarkably little noise as he ran. The spellcaster knew how to move.

  The buzzing was significantly louder on the second floor, resolving into a distinct hum combined with the groans of something mechanical, like a pump or waterwheel. By unspoken agreement, both men turned toward the noise, ignoring the closed doors and branching hallways leading other directions, as well as the stairways down to the first floor, where voices now shouted back and forth to each other.

  Three figures ran out of a nearby room, nearly colliding with Salim and his mysterious companion. Two of the newcomers, both male, held naked swords and wore cuirasses of boiled leather protecting their chests. The third, a slim woman whose armor was a complex series of leather straps, bore a dagger in each hand.

  There wasn't time for anything fancy. Salim barreled into the group, their shouts of surprise turning to grunts as they bounced off each other and the walls. Salim spun left, punching with his off hand, only to have his opponent twist away, the blow glancing off the armor's shoulder strap.

  Three enemies. Salim scrambled sideways to keep the woman and one of the men from flanking him. He'd have to trust his new companion to handle the third. His sword came up.

  These are not bad people. The thought came unwelcome and unbidden, yet Salim felt the weight of its truth. Vera had said that Caramine's group had so far taken only the scum of the city. Maybe they were in on the soul-stealing scheme, but maybe they were just trying to make their home a little bit safer. Did they deserve to die for it?

  Fine, Salim thought. We'll do it the hard way.

  The man facing him clearly had no such reservations. With a yell, he brought his longsword down in a powerful overhead swing. Powerful—but undisciplined. Salim easily parried it, blade angled to send it shearing off to the side rather than taking the full force. At the same time, he stepped forward past the man and brought a knee up hard into the swordsman's groin.

  The woman. Reflex made Salim spin, and he leaned sideways as one of the woman's daggers whizzed past his ear. He countered with a wide, low slash that forced her back out of range.

  The swordsman straightened, roaring, his sword coming up in a backswing. This time he was smarter, and shifted his weight to change direction, jerking the blade into a horizontal slash that might have cleaved Salim in two if he'd been an instant slower. Instead, Salim rocked back out of the way, then charged in close before the man could check the momentum of his swing. The basket hilt of Salim's sword, long ago melted to conform to his hand as smoothly as a set of brass knuckles, slammed up into the man's chin, snapping his head back and dropping him to the floor.

  Salim kicked backward, foot connecting with the knife-woman's chest and propelling her into the hallway's far wall. She hit with a thud, but didn't stay put. Pushing off the wall, she launched herself back at him, arms up like a boxer, one knife pointed toward him, the other reversed so the blade lay flat against her arm.

  She expected a slash, so Salim gave it to her, feinting right with his blade. The reversed knife came down to block just as she stepped forward past his blade and punched with the other dagger. The movement was smooth as silk, and had Salim committed to his own attack, it would have taken him high in the chest.

  Instead, he moved as well, spinning around the outside of her extended arm, grabbing, twisting, and snapping the elbow over one shoulder in a single fluid motion. Bone broke and the woman screamed as the knife fell from nerveless fingers. Before she could bring the other knife around, Salim stepped forward and grabbed her face, slamming her head back into the wall with a crack. She followed her comrade to the floor.

  Two down. Breathing hard, he whirled again, only to find the third guard's sword already raised to strike. Salim lurched backward, lifting his sword, knowing he wouldn't be fast enough.

  The man burst into flame. A solid sheet of horizontal fire filled the wide hallway, stopping just in front of Salim. The guard in front of him burned, flesh popping and crackling, falling backward with a hissing scream.

  The flames ceased, cut off as if they had never been, their only evidence the smoking corpse on the floor and charcoal blackening of the walls. Salim looked across the hall to find the little man in gray crouched against the wall, hands extended, faint tendrils of smoke rising from his fingers. He quirked an eyebrow at Salim.

  Salim tried to ignore the smell of charred meat. "Mine will live," he growled.

  "Mine won't," the man said. "They took Bors."

  Salim didn't answer, instead stepping quickly over the groaning figures of the two soldiers he'd put down. He didn't look back. Soon enough, the veiled man was at his side again.

  The humming continued to grow louder with every foot they traveled. At last the hallway ended in a closed door, the sound clearly coming from behind it. Salim looked to the little man, who met his eyes and nodded. Then he opened the door.

  They were on a balcony,
ten feet above the floor of a grand hall. Pillars spaced around the room ran all the way to a thirty-foot-tall ceiling frescoed with images of righteous angels, their burning swords raised high. Most of the tiled floor was empty of furniture, yet Salim could easily imagine the several dining tables meant to go there. At the far end, a short flight of steps climbed to a raised dais, the sort that in any other grand house might have held the high table for the lord and lady and their guests.

  Instead, it held a machine. Hulking and metallic, the thing squatted on the stone stage like a clockwork beast, a whirring mass of spinning wheels and bubbling alembics that protruded from its sides like glass buboes.

  Strapped spread-eagled to the front was a naked man, his wrists and ankles clasped to the machine by steel manacles. Facing outward, the terrified man struggled and shouted, yet none of the dozen men or women gathered on the floor in front of the dais paid him any heed. Their attention was focused on the other figure, seated on a steel throne next to the machine.

  Freewoman Caramine was impossible to mistake for anyone else. Despite Gav's explanation, Salim hadn't really stopped to imagine what it meant to increase the amount of blood in one's body. From the neck up, Caramine was a relatively handsome red-haired woman, with a round face and rosy cheeks. Beneath that, however, it was as if a pleasantly plump body had ballooned outward, stretching her skin tight. Loose purple robes hid much of her, yet her exposed arms were a caravan map of livid veins and splotchy bruises. Even from this distance, Salim could tell that the woman's bulk wasn't fat—it moved and hung wrong. She was bloated, her body an overfilled bladder ready to burst.

  She was also part of the machine. From the distended flesh of Caramine's arms sprouted several thin tubes that ran from the throne back into the humming machine, twitching and pulsing in a steady beat.

  "Despite this man's sins, we offer him the greatest gift." Caramine spoke in a smooth contralto that carried easily over the sounds of the machine. "By the holy sacrament of the Redemption Engine, his sins will be washed clean. He will be absolved of his wickedness, and join the armies of the righteous in Heaven, that they may help us in redeeming our own flawed world."