City of Storms

by Kat Ross

  Alexei paused at the dayroom. A man sat near the window, tall and dark-haired. He’d been handsome once, but now he was cadaverously thin. He argued silently with himself, hands gesturing.

  Alexei’s thumb ran across the name engraved on the corax.

  Mikhail Semyon Bryce.

  Most Invertido died within six months. When the ley was taken from them, they lost the will to live and wasted away. Alexei’s older brother had already beaten the odds, but he’d never see his thirty-sixth birthday unless the Nightmage who reversed his Marks somehow undid the damage.

  Misha’s hands were the only animated part of him. His lips moved in a whisper too soft to hear, eyes lost in another world. Alexei wondered who he was talking to.

  But the hands . . . yes, he remembered Misha gesturing like that when he would go over the day’s strategy. Their father was a northerner, cold and self-contained, but their mother had southern blood. She used her hands, too—

  “Fra Bryce?”

  Alexei turned, startled. The old man gazed up at Alexei with sharp green eyes set into deep sockets. Most of his teeth were gone. A red carnation poked from the buttonhole of a jacket that smelled of mothballs.

  “Good morning, Uncle,” he said politely.

  “Got a smoke?”

  The old man asked this same question every time they met.

  “No, but my partner does. I’ll ask him when he comes back.”

  Alexei didn’t know the old man’s name. When people arrived at the Institute, their identities were erased and they became a number. It was this practice that kept his relationship to Misha a secret. The higher-ups at the Curia knew, of course, but not Spassov.

  Mikhail Semyon Bryce was simply Patient 26. It was intended to protect the families from shame, but Alexei refused to think of human beings as numbers so he devised his own nicknames. Even the patients who hated everyone tolerated the old man. He never caused trouble.

  “How is Fra Spassov?”

  “Well, thank you.” Alexei admired the tweed jacket. “Is that new?”

  The old man smoothed a sleeve. “Nurse Jeyna gave it to me. It was her father’s.”

  “That was kind of her.”

  The old man’s face grew sly. “You brought the doctor in.”

  “Which doctor?” Alexei asked innocently.

  “You know which. Massot.” He spoke with the accent of the north, lilting but harsh on the consonants.

  “Who told you that?”

  “I have ears.”

  “Uncle,” Alexei said firmly. “You know I’m not allowed to talk about it.”

  “He gave me a kitten.” The old man’s eyes moved to Misha, who had not turned from his silent reverie. “I let Mikhail pet it. I trust him. Some of the others, not so much.”

  The old man ignored the no-names rule, though Alexei had never asked him for his own. An inverted flame Marked his neck with the words Lux et lex. Light and law. He must have been a priest in Jalghuth before he Turned.

  “Did Misha . . . did he speak to you?”

  “He talks only to himself.”

  Alexei concealed his disappointment. Mikhail never acknowledged his presence, but he refused to give up coming to see him.

  “We play chess sometimes,” the old man said. “He’s the only one around here who beats me.”

  “You play chess?” That was a surprise.

  “Oh, yes. We are friends.”

  Alexei felt a glimmer of hope. Maybe there was something left after all. “Thank you for looking after him, Uncle. It means a great deal to me.”

  The old man’s gaze grew distant. “Mikhail is a good man. Not like the doctor.”

  Alexei kept his tone neutral. The old man was easily spooked. “What do you mean?”

  Gloved fingers mechanically stroked the coat sleeve. “Did I tell you he gave me a kitten?”

  “You did, yes.” He bit back impatience. “What else?”

  “I drew him a picture. Some other things.” He gave a sweet gap-toothed smile. “Got a smoke?”

  Alexei sighed. They might go round and round for another hour before he extracted anything useful. “I’m sorry, Uncle, you’ll have to excuse me.” He’d been gone too long already and didn’t want Spassov looking for him. “But I’ll bring you a cigarette later, da?”

  The old man drifted over to Misha. He wore a pair of flannel pajamas under the tweed jacket. They’d been rolled up to the knees. Marks covered his bony legs, every single one inverted.

  Alexei wanted to stay—to spy, if he were being honest. Chess! He wouldn’t have thought it possible. In the early days, he’d tried everything to make Misha respond. Talked until his throat was hoarse. Brought photos of them together as boys, stacks of his favorite books. Nothing reached him. He stared straight through Alexei as if he were a ghost. But his brother had always loved strategy. Loved winning. Saints bless the old man for figuring that out.

  He pressed his palm to the Raven carved into the heavy door dividing the violent and nonviolent wings. The ley flowed weakly inside the walls, but he gathered enough to deactivate the Ward. His steps quickened as he approached the quiet room. Happily, Spassov wasn’t back yet. Alexei knew his partner would have waited in the hall for him before going inside. He leaned against the wall, thoughts still chewing over Misha and chess, when he heard an odd sound. Alexei glanced through the viewing window.

  Massot was not alone. A cloaked figure hunched over him. Alexei wrenched the door open. “Hey!” he shouted.

  Blood slicked the floor, splattered the walls. Massot slumped sideways in the restraints, his head tipped back, throat neatly slit. Alexei tore a glove off, though the ley was too sparse to do much more than trigger Wards. Massot made a weak choking sound. His eyes fixed on the ceiling.

  The killer’s cowl was raised, obscuring his face. He held a bloody dagger in his left hand. His cloak was nondescript, but his stance told Alexei the man had military training. It wasn’t the way he gripped the knife—there were a dozen effective techniques—but rather the set of his feet and his composure at being caught in the act.

  “Drop it,” Alexei snapped. “Get on your knees.”

  The soft squeak of a shoe behind him saved his life. He twisted so the bruising blow landed on his back rather than his skull. Massot’s killer charged, shoving past him. Two men, then. One must have kept watch in the corridor and concealed himself when he heard Alexei coming. He struggled to his feet. A pair of black cloaks swirled around the far corner. He gave chase, but by the time he reached the intersection, the men had vanished. Whoever they were, they had no trouble with the Warded doors. Not nihilim.

  He followed the trail across an inner bailey and then into a labyrinth of adjoining chambers the Baron Von Oppermann had built for the Saints only knew what purpose. Part of the wing had been converted to a laundry and he nearly ran down a gray-clad char carrying a stack of linens. She pressed into an arched doorway, eyes wide. He must have knelt in the pool of Massot’s blood, for it soaked his gloves and the hem of his cassock.

  “Did anyone come this way?” he panted.

  She shook her head.

  Alexei tore past. He knew every way out of the Institute. The windows were barred. They couldn’t leave by the front, they’d almost certainly be seen. That meant one of the Warded side gates. Some were used by the patients when the weather was pleasant and they were given time outdoors. Others took deliveries. Alexei found the nearest exit, which led to the vegetable garden. Through stinging sheets of rain, he saw the men vanishing into a stand of willows.

  Alexei sprinted across the lawn. The trees grew on the banks of a shallow creek, bright yellow flowers hanging in a feathery curtain. He swept them aside, sloshed through the creek and spotted his quarry. A rope hung down from the outer wall. The first man was already scurrying up it. Alexei’s lungs burned as he narrowed the gap. The second followed on the heels of his accomplice, pausing at the top to reel it up. Alexei leapt for the end, but he was a few centimeters short. The rope
slithered over the top of the wall and the killer turned to follow it. As he braced his legs to jump down, Alexei caught a glimpse of the Raven Mark on his neck.

  He bent over, hands on knees, gasping for breath.

  Not Nightmages.

  Priests.

  Alexei cursed softly and wiped the blood from his gloves on the grass. The gatehouse was two kilometers away on the other side of the Institute. By the time he got there, the men would be long gone. They’d chosen the point of entry well. But how had they known the exact moment to strike? Someone must have tipped them off that he and Spassov had left the room. He immediately thought of Oto Valek, but he had no evidence against the orderly, just a sense of general dislike.

  Alexei’s analytical mind wanted to attack the problem from all angles, but he needed to tell his partner first. He jogged around to the covered portico at Admissions and found Spassov leaning on the car. He flicked his cigarette into a puddle with an apologetic shrug. “Sorry, I had a couple. Why are you out in the rain?”

  Alexei suspected he’d also been hitting the flask, but maybe that was for the best. It would soften the blow.

  “Massot’s dead,” he said, still catching his breath. “There were two—” He almost said priests but thought better of it. “Assassins.”

  “Assassins?” Spassov echoed in disbelief.

  “They’re gone.” He braced a hand on the hood. “But they got to him, Patryk. They got to him.”

  Spassov cursed and bounded through the front door. Oto Valek and Nurse Jeyna were conferring at the desk. Alexei watched Valek’s face, but he didn’t look flustered or guilty, just mildly curious.

  “Call the guardhouse,” Spassov snapped. “Tell them to lock everything down.”

  “What’s happened?” Jeyna asked with a frown.

  Spassov didn’t reply. He was already striding for Massot’s room. When he saw the corpse, Spassov groaned. “Where were you when this happened?” Alexei stared and his partner grimaced. “I’m just asking!”

  “Talking to the old man. I was only gone for a few minutes.”

  “You saw them?”

  “Not clearly. I chased but they went over the wall.”

  “Descriptions?”

  “They wore cloaks. I never saw their faces.”

  Spassov swore. “I’ll call it in. Keep everyone away.”

  “Ask the old man, if it makes you feel better. He wanted a cigarette.”

  “Please, Alyosha, I believe you. Massot’s master probably wanted to shut him up. It seems clear to me. Just wait here.”

  Alexei nodded. Even if he hadn’t seen the Raven Mark, he knew it wasn’t the mage. If Malach had wanted Massot dead, he’d be dead, not Turned. The whole thing stank. Alexei regretted his outburst even more keenly. If he’d kept a cool head, they might have learned something useful. Now Massot’s secrets would stay forever buried.

  Alexei replayed the scene in his mind. Two priests enter the Institute, probably former knights. They either have an accomplice inside, or they observe Spassov leaving and seize their chance. One stands guard while the other enters the quiet room. Massot might have known them—or at least who sent them. He would have shouted, screamed, but the room was soundproof. Alexei could imagine his terror, strapped to the chair, as his killer took out the knife. He tried to summon a shred of pity and failed. The doctor got what was coming to him. An uncharitable thought, but Alexei didn’t care. He, too, was a lost cause.

  All he could do at this point was keep Patryk out of it. Beneath the cynical bluster, Spassov was a true friend. He was hoping for early retirement from the Interfectorem and Alexei wouldn’t screw it up for him.

  Twenty minutes later, a forensic team arrived from the Arx. Two burly investigators named Fra Gerlach and Fra Brodszky took their statements. Alexei showed them the spot where the killers had scaled the wall, although the rain had obliterated any footprints. He recounted every detail except for the Raven Mark. Until he had an inkling of how far this went, Alexei wasn’t about to stick his head in the lion’s mouth.

  “You’re free to go,” Gerlach said. “But the boss wants to see you right away.”

  “Sure,” Spassov said, a bit mournfully. “I figured he would.”

  Gerlach shot him a look. “Not both of you.” His flat gaze fixed on Alexei. “Just him.”

  * * *

  “Sit down, Fra Bryce.”

  Alexei did as ordered, taking a wing chair. Casimir Kireyev’s office was on the top floor of the Office of the General Directorate, a building as nondescript as its name. The ivy-covered brick looked more like a university lecture hall than the headquarters of the Pontifex’s spymaster, which is just how she liked it.

  “Your report is still pending,” Kireyev observed. “When do you plan to file it?”

  “As soon as the case is closed, Your Grace.”

  Kireyev had nut-brown skin and large, tapered ears. When he smiled, as he was doing now, Alexei always thought of a wizened gnome. Kireyev removed his spectacles and wiped the lenses with a purple-edged handkerchief. “We will continue to look for these men, of course, but there’s nothing more that can be done on your end.”

  “I respectfully disagree, Your Grace.”

  The smile faded. “And why is that?”

  “Our primary witness is dead,” Alexei said dryly. “I’ll need continued access to his home and office, as well as permission to interview all known associates. Oh, and copies of his records in the Arx. Otherwise it will be impossible to complete my report in a timely fashion.”

  Kireyev sighed. “Alexei, I appreciate your devotion. As you’ll recall, I offered you several other well-regarded positions within the Curia when your unit was decommissioned. With your education, you could have easily risen to apostolic legat within a few short years. You insisted on joining the Interfectorem, over my objections. I have granted you a great deal of latitude.” He slammed a hand down on the desk. “But personal vendettas have no place here!”

  Alexei blinked. “Your Grace?”

  “You think I don’t know?” Kireyev chuckled without a trace of amusement. “I know everything that happens in this city. You’d do well to remember that.”

  “Of course, Your Grace.”

  “The nihilim will be found and eliminated. He sealed his own death warrant when he set foot in Via Sancta territory. The Wards will trap him until he shows himself, and anyone who gave him aid or shelter will face the prescribed penalties. But that is my task, not yours.”

  Alexei looked away, gaze roaming over the bookshelves with their leather-bound volumes on philosophy and history. A fire crackled in the grate. His cassock was still damp from the rain and the warmth felt pleasant. Alexei’s eyes grew heavy. He bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood.

  One didn’t doze off during an audience with the Archbishop of Novostopol.

  “Continue on this path and you will find it leads to places best left alone. I think you know that already. The Shadow is a tight passage, a narrow door, whose painful constriction no one is spared who goes down to the deep well. Have you forgotten your vows?”

  “No, Your Grace.”

  The tone softened. “You’re a good soldier. A good priest. Maybe someday you’ll come to your senses and realize the Interfectorem is a dead end. But in the meantime, you’ll do as you’re told.” A pause. “Not all of us are lenient towards insubordination. My protection only extends so far.”

  Alexei knew he should bow his head and accept the reprimand, but a spark of rebellion lit at the implicit threat. “And what exactly am I being told, Your Grace?”

  The archbishop stared at him for a long minute. “I want that report on my desk by morning. You are not to pursue this matter in any capacity.”

  Alexei bowed his head. “Your Grace.”

  “And get some sleep. You look terrible.”

  The bishop’s gaze seared his back as he strode to the door.

  Did Kireyev send the priests? Or did he simply know who did? Neit
her prospect was reassuring. If Kireyev hadn’t ordered the killing himself, it must be someone high up indeed if he was covering for them. The only ranks above the archbishop were the cardinals—and of course, the Pontifex herself.

  In the lavish antechamber beyond, a woman with short blond hair, very light eyes and a diamond nose stud sat in one of the visitor chairs. She looked annoyed. Her cassock was dark blue silk with gold embroidery along the hem. Wolf-Marked on her neck.

  “I’m sorry for the delay, Nuncio Morvana,” Kireyev’s secretary said smoothly. “His Grace will see you now.”

  The ambassador rose to her feet. She was tall enough to look Alexei in the eye. He saw guarded curiosity and consternation that she’d been left waiting for a lowly priest. “It iz about time,” she muttered in a thick Kven accent, striding through the door to the archbishop’s office.

  Outside, the rain fell in torrents. Alexei drew his cowl up. His mouth tasted like blood.

  Sleep?

  He laughed aloud, wishing the sound didn’t remind him so much of Dr. Massot.

  Chapter Eleven

  Kasia cancelled all her appointments for the day. She put on sweatpants and prowled through the flat trailing fragrant smoke from a bundle of smoldering sage, lingering in the area the priests had occupied. Then she made herself a thick cheese sandwich with horseradish mustard on dark rye. It was so good, she made another one and ate that, too.

  After lunch, she did some long-overdue laundry, trying not to dwell on the two brass cylinders wedged behind the refrigerator. Natalya worked at her desk, utterly absorbed, pausing only for coffee and pirozhki from the bakery down the street.

  Kasia dug out her second-best oracle deck and did several simple three-card foretellings. The Knight appeared in every single one, as did the Fool. The suits in this deck were Storms, Serpents, Keys and Wards, and no matter how many spreads she laid out, the message was bleak. She saw temptation and lust, treachery and danger.