City of Storms

by Kat Ross

  Falke chuckled. “Massot was so eager to tell you the news. If Beleth had Lezarius, she might force him to free the ley. He’s the only one on earth who could do it.” The cardinal rose to his feet. “I just wanted you to know the depth of your failure.”

  Malach flexed his hands. “Thanks for that. I think I’ll kill you all now and go pick him up, whoever he is.”

  The cardinal smiled. “Oh, did I forget to mention? He’s dead.”

  “What?”

  “I didn’t take the decision lightly.” His face grew solemn again. “Lezarius is a true martyr. I’ll personally see to it that he’s canonized, but he’s Invertido now. Far too dangerous to be left alive.”

  Perhaps it was the part about making Lezarius a saint, but Malach finally grasped that Falke was telling the truth. A bloody haze dimmed his eyes. He threw his head back and howled. If he’d had the ley, he would have flipped every Mark in the Arx. The entire city.

  “I’ve known you a long time, Malach.” Falke’s eyes shone with emotion. “I never gave up hoping that some part of you could be salvaged. But you belong wholly to them.”

  The cardinal nodded at his knights. Four blades rasped from their scabbards. He made the sign given to the dying. “Et lux perpetua luceat. May your heart find peace.”

  Malach spat in his face.

  Cardinal Falke wiped it away with a gloved finger. “The Cold Truce is over,” he said wearily. “Take his hands.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Fra Gerlach and Fra Brodszky drove up to the Batavia Institute and sat in the car, wipers on high, while they waited for the gates to open.

  Since the murder of Ferran Massot, the guards had been strict about protocol. One shone a torch into the backseat before walking around to the driver’s side window, his free hand resting on the hilt of a sword.

  He swallowed hard at the Golden Bough insignia on their robes, stammered an apology, and signaled at the guard inside the booth to buzz them through. Priests from General Directorate were given instant and full cooperation, no questions asked.

  The guard had no idea they were also high-ranking members of Cardinal Falke’s Praesidia ex Divina Sanguis, nor that such a society even existed. As it happened, there was a fair amount of overlap between the two organizations. Both were former Knights of Saint Jule who had served under the cardinal and been hand-picked for the Praesidia. They understood the necessity of the night’s task, but being pious and ley-fearing men, did not relish it.

  Gerlach parked in the lot around back and took out his corax.

  “Raven or name?” he asked.

  Brodszky hesitated. “Raven.”

  Gerlach flipped the corax, catching it on the back of his gloved left hand. They looked at each other. “Two out of three?” Gerlach proposed wryly.

  Brodszky didn’t smile. “I’ll do it,” he said.

  “No.” Gerlach sighed. “I was only joking.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Gerlach met his partner’s eye. “The burden is mine.”

  They unfurled black umbrellas and walked swiftly through the rain to the rear entrance. Wards blazed above every window and door. Oto Valek was waiting for them. He bobbed his head in deference, glancing down the empty corridor as they shook off rainwater.

  “It’s all arranged, Fathers,” the orderly said.

  “Good,” Brodszky said. “We need 26 first.”

  “Follow me.” Valek set off down the corridor. The sconces had been dimmed for bedtime, leaving the hall in partial shadow. Thick carpeting muffled their footsteps.

  “Where’s the rest of the staff?” Gerlach asked.

  “There are six attendants on duty in B and C wings, three on each side. Nurse Jeyna is in the dispensary, preparing the sedatives for tomorrow morning. Dr. Pagwe is in his office filling out reports.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Well, the Wards are activated. The patients can’t cause much trouble, can they?” Valek gave a nervous laugh. “Except for . . . you know.”

  Gerlach decided he didn’t like this man. He already knew too much. Oto Valek would need to be handled at some point. Maybe tonight, once it was done. They were already killing two birds with one stone. Why not three?

  He smiled. “Don’t go far. We’ll need your statement as a witness.”

  “Of course, Father, of course.” Valek cleared his throat. “I assume there will be a reward?”

  “Naturally.” Though not the one you expect.

  The orderly paused at a door. “Here he is.”

  “Open it.”

  Valek took out a ring of keys. “He shouldn’t give you any trouble. You won’t get a whit of sense from him, mind, but he does as told.”

  Tumblers clicked. Light spilled in from the corridor. The room was nicer than either of them expected. Expensive furniture, lots of books, though they looked dusty. Someone paid for amenities.

  A tall black-haired man sprawled on the goosedown bed. Brodszky, who had served with him in several campaigns, felt a twinge of guilt before his Marks smoothed it over. Twenty-six had paid a high price for his loyalty. He was a martyr to the cause. But as the cardinal said, it would be a mercy for them both in the end.

  Rain lashed the barred window as the priests approached the bed. “Wake up,” Gerlach said. “You must come with us.”

  Patient 26 rolled over, raising one arm against the square of light that fell across the bed. A dark beard covered his sunken cheeks. His gaze was empty, his lips so chapped Brodzsky could see spots of dried blood.

  “On your feet, miles ignotum,” he said, putting some snap in his voice.

  Gerlach frowned at the term “unknown soldier” and glanced at Oto Valek, who stood in the doorway. Twenty-six lumbered to his feet, blinking uncertainly.

  “Where’s 9?” Brodzsky asked.

  “Down the hall,” Valek replied.

  They prodded 26 into motion. He shuffled along like a sleepwalker, muttering under his breath. The uniform of the Institute, a white cotton tunic and pants, hung loose on his lanky frame. The Raven Mark on his neck seemed to stare at Gerlach with a beady, accusing eye.

  “Forgive me, but I have a question, Fathers,” Valek said, toying with the keys. “What about these? I could get into serious trouble. How could 26 have escaped—”

  Gerlach held up a set of lock picks. “They’ll be found with his body. His brother must have smuggled them in when he visited.”

  Valek nodded, eyes agleam with sudden cunning. “I see, I see. Implicate Bryce. Of course, he would want 9 silenced. That was his only witness. Oh, it’s very clever, Fathers!”

  “Be quiet,” Gerlach growled. “How much farther?”

  “Just here.” Valek paused in front of a door, shoulders hunching. “Would it be impertinent to inquire how much the reward will be—”

  “Keys,” Brodszky snapped, holding out a hand.

  The orderly flinched. “Of course, Father, of course.”

  “Get lost,” Gerlach said. “Should anyone ask, we’re here investigating the murder of Ferran Massot. You escorted us to his room and left. Utter a single word beyond that and you’ll never see daylight again.”

  Valek blanched. “No, no,” he stammered. “You can count on my discretion.”

  “I hope so,” Gerlach said with a cold smile.

  The orderly practically ran down the hall. The priests shared a look of silent commiseration. Neither doubted that the work of the Praesidia was the only path to salvation. They’d been chosen for this because they would not waver. Yet Brodszky felt relieved he’d won the corax toss.

  “The grace of the ley be with you,” he said, unlocking the door.

  Both had secretly hoped their victim would be asleep, but he was sitting on the bed, awake and dressed in a tweed jacket. A small man with wispy white hair, bare feet and tobacco-stained teeth. Yet the priests paused at the threshold.

  “I wondered when you’d come,” Patient 9 said.

  Twenty-six stopped muttering. It wa
s so quiet, Brodszky heard his partner draw a breath. Gerlach was the first to break the spell. “We just want to ask you some questions,” he said.

  They came inside and gently closed the door. The old man’s eyes narrowed. “I see. Why is Mikhail here?”

  “Turn around,” Brodzsky said, steering 26 to face the wall. He drew a blade and pressed it to his back. Mikhail didn’t seem aware of it. His mouth worked soundlessly.

  “You killed Dr. Massot, didn’t you?” the old man said, an edge in his voice now.

  “Your work on this earth is done,” Gerlach said. “It will never be forgotten. But it’s time to rejoin the ley, Reverend Father.”

  “Don’t hurt Mikhail. He’s an innocent!”

  Gerlach held his palms up and began the litany. “Kyrie, eleison. Kyrie, eleison. Sancte Jule. Sancte Dima. Sancta Agathe. Sancte Kwame. Sancta Imani. Propitius esto. Ab omne malo, libera nos. Ab omni peccato, libera nos. . . .”

  From all sin, deliver us. From all evil, deliver us.

  The old man sprang to his feet, faster than Gerlach would have believed possible. He backed into a corner. “You are the evil!”

  “Oremus pro fidelibus defunctis…”

  “You must not do this! Please, brothers—”

  Gerlach shut out the cries for mercy. He finished the litany but had to grope for the final words. His head throbbed like a rotten tooth. It felt wrong, all wrong. Near to panic, he tore a glove off and stooped down, drawing the faint residue of ley into his Marks. A pleasant numbness came over him, washing away any hesitation. I act for the sake of all that is right and good. I act so the light will triumph over the darkness. I act from love, not malice.

  Brodszky glanced over. “What are you doing?”

  “We owe him this much,” Gerlach replied, his Marks igniting.

  It would be quick and painless with the ley. Lezarius would feel nothing but bliss until the instant his heart stopped. Then they would leave Bryce with the body and go collect blood samples in Massot’s cell until Valek sounded the alarm. It was lucky that agents from the OGD happened to be there working late. There would be an investigation, of course, but they’d be running it. Command and control from start to finish.

  “That’s not what we planned!” Brodszky grated.

  The angry tone startled 26, who moaned and covered his ears. He started rocking back and forth, agitated, and Brodsky turned back to him, whispering urgent words Gerlach couldn’t make out.

  The old man drew himself up, facing his killer. Gerlach smiled gently as his hands closed around Lezarius’s throat.

  “Let me ease your fears, Reverend Father,” he said.

  Gerlach found the windpipe and closed it off. The saint’s skin was dry and thin as old parchment. Power flowed from his hands, carrying the intention to calm. Gerlach had killed for the Praesidia before, but he had never used the ley on an Invertido and he immediately encountered the same problem Alexei did when he tried to subdue Dr. Massot. The ley did not behave as expected.

  Lezarius’s heels drummed against the floor. Gerlach bore down, sweat beading his forehead. Power hummed between them. Gerlach felt it building, bottlenecking, and suddenly a fist clouted his ear. “You fool,” Brodszky snapped. “Have you forgotten what he is?”

  The next moments were a blur. Brodszky raised his blade to finish it when large hands clamped around his head, twisting it with a snap. The blade clattered to the floor. Gerlach reached for it, but 26 got there first. The tip pressed against Gerlach’s sternum. Blue eyes bored into him. Gerlach saw his own death reflected back.

  “Go ahead,” he said defiantly. “Others will come—”

  The blade twisted sideways and thrust home, finding the gap between the fourth and fifth ribs on the left side of Gerlach’s chest. He had an instant to grasp the disaster he had brought upon the world before the blade jerked in a practiced lateral sweep. Gerlach’s heart muscle seized, then went into stuttering fibrillation. The blade withdrew.

  Unconsciousness was immediate and death followed seconds later.

  * * *

  A swift end, and cleaner than he deserved, Lezarius thought.

  “I know who sent them,” he rasped. “I remember it all now.”

  Mikhail tilted his head in a question.

  “Thirty years they left me to rot. Thirty years!” Lezarius scrubbed a hand across his mouth. “But these walls will not hold me anymore.” The old man sat up. “Justice will be served, but I cannot do it alone, Mikhail. Will you be my champion?”

  Mikhail rubbed his arms. He cast his eyes down and shook his head. Lezarius cupped his chin, forcing him to look up.

  “Why? Because they claim you are mad?”

  Mikhail’s gaze burned.

  “Well, I am mad, too.” He laughed. “I cannot be trusted! Will you die here, like a penned sheep, or will you help me?”

  He searched the dead men’s pockets. Each had a corax. He read the names and put them in the pocket of his tweed jacket. He found a set of car keys and took those as well. “Now, Mikhail,” he said solemnly, “I will show you something.”

  Lezarius wore the Warded, mesh-lined gloves that blocked patients from touching the ley, but a residue from Gerlach still sang in his blood. He focused it and the Wards dissolved. Lezarius tore off the gloves. He stared at his fingers for a long moment. The skin was pale and damp as a mushroom. He raised a hand to his nose. It smelled bad.

  Mikhail watched in silence as Lezarius washed in a bowl of water, scrubbing with soap until his hands were raw. Then he sat on the floor, letting the ley wash over him. Tears blurred his eyes. This is what they had taken from him. This.

  He touched the deep vortex beneath the Arx, remembering the making of it. Had he desired, he could have broken the reservoir, irrevocably, but he also remembered what the mages who ruled Bal Agnar and Bal Kirith had done with the ley. The slave markets. The grinding poverty of the masses, while a handful of Nightmarked lived like emperors. They’d made their cities into jungles, with the strongest and cruelest taking the lion’s share, and called it the natural order.

  Lezarius knew he was mad, but he was still their foe.

  He took his coat off, and his shirt. He could no longer create, but he could destroy.

  The Raven blazed, so fiercely Mikhail threw an arm up to shield his face.

  It began at the Arx. Channels of ley raced outward, disabling Wards as they went. The shockwave rolled through Novostopol. Within seconds, it reached the Institute. Mikhail cried out as his own Marks flared, and then the wave passed, spreading outwards toward the Void.

  Mikhail breathed hard, but his eyes no longer held that terrible blankness. Lezarius put his shirt and coat back on. He took a last look around at the cell that had been his home for the last three years. He knew every crack in the plaster. Every creaky floorboard. He wondered how the world had changed in his absence. They had forgotten him, but now they would remember.

  Lezarius slid a cardboard box from underneath the bed, tucking it under one arm. “Come,” he said to Mikhail. “Take the sword.”

  A tumult of shouts echoed through the corridor outside. Doors swung wide, patients spilling forth. A woman with fiery red hair jogged down the hall. She saw Mikhail and veered toward him. “Come on, big man,” she coaxed, cupping his crotch. “Do you want me?”

  Mikhail pushed her, the way you might push a tree branch out of the way if it blocked your path, and she stumbled back, falling on her bottom. “Well, fog you, too,” she muttered. “Which way’s out?”

  Lezarius pointed.

  “Thanks, Uncle,” she said.

  “You’re welcome, Chey.” He pulled her to her feet. “Be careful of the others. Just walk straight out the doors and follow the drive.” He smiled. “Have yourself some fun.”

  “I’ll do that.” She grinned and took off running.

  “Ah, freedom,” Lezarius said. “Lead on, Mikhail.”

  His companion did not move. He stared after Chey like a startled doe. Lezarius had spent
a good deal of time with him, playing chess or just sitting together, but the precise nature of his pain was difficult to determine because he never spoke. Lezarius had a few theories, though. Mikhail was Nightmarked. This would eliminate his inhibitions. But the Nightmark had Inverted, so the result would deviate from the reversal of a regular Mark. It might actually enhance certain inhibitions, while lifting others. Either way, Lezarius could see that the chaos was not having a salubrious effect.

  “We cannot stay here,” he said gently. “It will be quieter outside. Do you trust me?”

  Mikhail nodded, head low.

  “Then you must do as I say.”

  Mikhail lifted the sword, but only to point towards his own room.

  He is afraid, Lezarius realized. The Institute is all he knows.

  “What if we found your brother?” Lezarius said. “The priest?”

  Mikhail did not answer, but Lezarius detected a glimmer of emotion in his eyes. They must have been close because the brother came twice a week faithfully and he never stopped coming even though Lezarius could see how painful the visits were for him. The priest’s work brought him to the Institute, but he came on his days off, as well. He brought little gifts and ensured Mikhail received every comfort.

  It saddened Lezarius to see the two of them together. The resemblance was strong, yet one was hale and the other wasting away. Lezarius had no doubt the priest would continue to come until his brother was dead.

  “Mikhail?” he said. “Do you hear me? I can take you—”

  A woman screamed. Mikhail’s head snapped around. He took off running and Lezarius hurried after him. At the next intersection, they found Nurse Jeyna fighting off three men with a folding chair. They had her backed against a wall, but she was no easy prey. She jabbed one of them hard in the chest and he stumbled back, but the others used the chance to swarm closer and try to wrest the chair away.