‘I’m not seeking a Hunter, Mister Fieri.’
‘It’s just a name, Mister Carney.’
Aulton leaned forward and steepled his fingers. ‘When I entered the room, what were you doing?’
‘A curious line of questioning from someone uninvited.’
‘Indulge me.’
‘No.’
‘You were meditating.’
‘It has a calming effect.’
‘Your office possesses no personal flourishes, Mister Fieri.’
‘It’s where I conduct my business.’
‘The Hunters’ Guild conducts your business—you don’t “meditate” shirtless unless the place you’re in is personal. You speak like an educated man, you carry yourself well—and that shirt you’re wearing is a Schörling Wolfsen of Ryndara. I’m asking myself why a man of affluence would live in such sparse surroundings.’
Now there was a reaction in Fieri—annoyance. ‘I care as little for the frivolous trappings of prosperity as I do for being interrogated in my own home. Leave, Mister Carney. I will not ask again.’
‘Genevieve insists that her concert go ahead tomorrow. She will not listen to my advice to postpone it, so all I can do is see she is protected. I will pay handsomely.’
‘I feel like I just explained my stance on money.’
‘Is your partner’s the same?’
‘He would insist you take out a contract with the Guild.’
‘Damn the Guild, man! I need someone I can trust, someone who is above the corruption that festers in this place. Who better than a man who not only doesn’t require money but who actively shuns it?’
An hour seemed to pass before Damien spoke. ‘It would be illegal for me to take on a bodyguard contract without Guild approval.’
Gods damn it. Aulton’s heart sank. He had one more avenue of attack—but he wished it hadn’t come to this.
‘You will take the contract, Mister Fieri.’
‘Why?’
Aulton cleared his throat, and chose his words. ‘Because I know who you are.’
Gunfire rang out in the distance.
One shot, followed by another—not three-round bursts or the frenetic spray of panic. Methodical, precise.
Executions.
White water spouted from a pipe, mixing on the floor with congealed blood. Bullets had been punched into walls and glass littered the floor. Red emergency lighting pulsed and painted the world in swathes of crimson.
Fallon crouched by an overturned water unit, the rest of the crew doing the same with whatever debris was handy. They’d reached a cross junction, with one door at the far end and another to the east. Both had been blown from their hinges.
‘They’re up ahead,’ said Fallon. ‘They expected their comrades back by now—Doc, how many did you see before you high-tailed it?’
‘Um, six, I think, but I can’t be sure.’
‘That leaves three.’
‘A six-man unit to clear out a whole installation?’ observed Gallows. ‘Does that seem right to you?’
‘Makes sense. They didn’t expect anyone to put up a fight, and whoever gives ’em their orders would want as few people as possible knowing about this place. Listen: These bastards ain’t playing around—when they see us, they won’t hesitate. You get a clear shot, take it. Rend, you take the north corridor with me; Valentine, Gallows, you take the east. Sturrock, you’re tail-end Charlie with the doc. We’ll draw their fire, separate ’em and pick ’em off. Doc—just keep your head down and stay out damn way.’
Basud didn’t argue.
‘RV when this floor is clear.’
‘Got it,’ said Valentine. ‘Gallows, with me.’
The doctor had said the enemy unit had been dispatched from the capital on their patrol craft—had whoever killed the Prime Councillor ordered troops here? Were they working with the Idari?
Assuming Basud’s telling the truth, and I got my doubts about that.
Valentine gestured with her hand. Room clear.
They advanced to the next; every room on this level was identical. Pristine, sterile white surfaces violated with gore. What in all hells happened in here?
Gallows stepped into the final room in the eastern corridor, and-
‘Holy shit!’
A body hung from the ceiling, suspended by meat hooks through its hands, shoulders, back and feet. Its chest cavity splayed open—its guts had been removed. It floated there with arms stretched in a wide embrace, like a mutilated angel.
Gallows fell against the wall. The room spun. The hanging body reflected in the mirrored windows—a choir of bloodied, corrupt angels ready to carry off the souls of the dead.
‘Sweet Musa.’ Valentine stood in the doorway, eyes glued to the sight.
From nowhere, Basud appeared. ‘…Mathieson!’ he gasped. ‘That’s Mathieson! Gods, what have we done?’
Gallows didn’t know what to think, couldn’t think. What animal would do this?
‘Basud-’
Glass exploded behind the doctor, a thousand shards sparkling like ice amidst the scarlet warning lights.
The Wraith grabbed Basud and pulled him through the other side.
‘Contact!’ Valentine shouted.
From outside, Sturrock’s shotgun rang out once before the Wraith batted it to the floor.
Gallows threw himself over the window, ignoring the shards of glass slicing into his palm. He pulled his rifle up but the Wraith turned on him and scythed it from his hands.
It drew a sword.
‘Help!’ Basud whimpered. The Wraith picked him up and hurled him into Valentine.
The Wraith turned his attention to Gallows.
Gallows unsheathed the sword he’d retrieved from the dead Wraith on the surface. The blades were straight with a slightly curved point—slashing swords, like Gallows’ shortsword.
The Wraith lunged; the blade flew towards Gallows’ eyes like the flick of a serpent’s tongue. Gallows felt the air rush past his face, stepped back and deflected the backswing. Steel clanged. Pain ran up Gallows’ arm—he’d absorbed too much of the blow, and his opponent was strong.
But Gallows was quick.
His blade blurred and cut the Wraith’s wrist—but he didn’t register it.
The Wraith’s blade whirred in the air, driving Gallows backwards with inhuman strength and speed. Gallows had to push himself to match him; he dodged, deflected and ducked under the Wraith’s attempts to skewer him, but he couldn’t keep it up for long; maybe on his best day he could win the fight, but exhausted and still recovering from injuries?
He needed to buy time for Sturrock or Valentine to save his ass.
Stepping back, he drew the Wraith further away from the others, catching a cut on the arm for his trouble. His legs wanted to run, but the instinct was a lie; the corridor was spacious but the debris littering the ground made for unsure footing.
The Wraith lunged and the tip of his blade bit into Gallows’ shoulder. Pain flared down his arm, but still he scrambled backwards, narrowly avoiding the follow-up slash.
Gallows feinted high and left, then booted the Wraith’s crotch when his guard had shifted.
Where Gallows came from, that was known as a Taxman’s Tip.
They duelled. Each slash from the Wraith was more precise, more calculated.
The Wraith feinted, Gallows attacked—and with a flicker of steel, it sent Gallows’ sword clattering to the floor.
But doing so left him open.
Gallows swung his left fist into the Wraith’s temple, followed by a savage uppercut. He grabbed the Wraith’s wrist with both hands, twisted, and snapped it.
The Wraith growled in pain and his sword fell to the ground.
Gallows was a kid from Dustwynd, and in Dustwynd, kids learned to talk with their fists before their mouths.
The Wraith swept Gallows’ feet away and retrieved his sword, picking it up with his left hand. Gallows snatched his own from the ground, and again they were even.
The Wraith came at Gallows with a series of thrusts. Glass crunched under Gallows’ foot as he moved backwards, the air in front of him a silvery haze. He couldn’t keep this up much longer. Where in all hells are Sturrock and Valentine?
As if reading his thoughts, Sturrock burst out of nowhere and charged into the Wraith’s back. The bastard flailed forward two steps, his sword almost stabbing into Gallows’ gut.
Gallows scythed the Wraith’s blade away and jabbed his own into his throat.
Or he would have, had the Wraith not grabbed the tip of the blade at the very last moment and buried it into the wall.
‘Son of a-’ The Wraith’s boot sent Gallows to the ground.
Sturrock’s meaty arms wrapped around the Wraith’s neck—he snapped his head back into Sturrock’s nose, sending him reeling.
‘Aw screw you!’ Sturrock yelled and leapt onto the Wraith’s back, raining punches into his head.
The Wraith twisted and slammed Sturrock into the floor.
Nothing’s hurting this guy… Gallows unsheathed his knife. It didn’t feel like enough.
The Wraith towered above Sturrock, blade hanging in the air, ready to strike…
A bullet caved the Wraith’s chest in.
Valentine stood in the passageway, smoke coiling from her sniper rifle.
But the Wraith was still alive.
Gallows, seeing his chance, ran full pelt and jammed the knife into the Wraith’s throat, the point sinking into meat. Blood sprayed from the wound.
And the Wraith dropped to his knees, a groan like the scrape of a blocked sewer pipe spurting from him.
And then he was silent.
‘Y’all okay?’ Valentine asked.
‘Yeah,’ Gallows replied. He offered a hand to Sturrock and pulled him from the floor, then reached down and yanked the Wraith’s mask off.
‘Belios…’ The Wraith’s bald head was covered in mottled grey skin. His eyes were a dull blue, like old marbles.
‘He’s been dead a long time,’ said Gallows.
‘Eh?’ Sturrock had the fear of Nyr written all over his face. ‘How is that possible? What in all hells is going on?’
Damn good question. ‘Look… We don’t have time to question it. The mission is still the same: Get out. We can debate the rest later.’
‘You lot, stop slacking off,’ called Fallon. ‘We got something.’
‘Mathieson’s quarters,’ said Basud.
After retrieving their swords and guns and making sure the other two Wraiths weren’t nearby, Gallows, Valentine and Sturrock followed Fallon into a private office. The door had been locked but Sturrock’s shotgun solved that. An ignium lamp lit the room, a welcome change to the crimson emergency lighting that steeped the rest of the installation. Filing cabinets, a mahogany desk and shelves displaying jars filled with mystery contents completed the room.
‘This is some messed up shit,’ said Sturrock. He wasn’t wrong: Piles of journals detailed years’ worth of experiments. ‘Genetic manipulation, biological experiments, chemical warfare… Gods, they injected ignium gas and igneus into living subjects. They cultivated diseases...’
Valentine rounded on Basud. ‘You’re sick!’
Rend’s brow had furrowed but the kid hadn’t said anything in a long time.
Gallows’ stomach twisted. He wanted to spit, to scrub the sour taste from his mouth. ‘We’re no better than the goddamn Idari.’ The Grand Perceptor’s face smiled at him. ‘Did you see… the body hanging in that operating room? What kind of beast does that, huh?’
Basud shook his head. ‘Not us—something else.’
‘We should burn this place to the ground,’ said Valentine. ‘We should leave and burn this place behind us.’
‘No!’ Basud cried.
‘No?’ Rend’s voice was small, like a child’s. ‘No? You say you are a man of the Fayth yet you stood by while this… corruption took place! You should be tried as a war criminal!’
Basud laughed. ‘By whom? The Council? The Fayth? King Owain? This is a government-sanctioned facility! I don’t have to justify myself.’
Fallon shook his head. ‘Pyron Thackeray. For years that bastard wanted to pass laws to rescind the rules on forbidden experiments. He’d been doing it all along.’
Gallows didn’t want to, but he found himself reading more of the journals. Old photographs of skeletal humans looked up at him.
‘Most of ’em look Idari,’ Gallows said. ‘When Thackeray came back from the war, he commanded that all citizens of Idari lineage be detained. It was one of the first things he did after he was sworn in.’ Gallows looked up from the desk and bored his gaze straight into Basud. ‘This is where they took them.’
Sweat poured from Basud. ‘It, it was legal, we were ordered-’
‘To kill and torture hundreds of innocent people,’ said Rend.
‘I vote we kill this bastard now.’ Sturrock pumped his shotgun.
Valentine nodded her agreement.
‘Negative,’ said Fallon. ‘We take this piece of shit back to the city, give him a trial—a very goddamn public trial.’
Gallows continued leafing through the journals. Some names had been redacted but not all. ‘Says here that Doctor Atticus Mathieson was the project lead… If he was the boss, then who ordered him strung up and gutted?’
‘A monster… Kor-’
A tattered sheet of paper slipped from one of the pages. A list of names.
One jumped out.
LUVANDIS, Seraphine Nokoto. Status: Deceased.
Chapter Sixteen
Why didn’t I tear Vaughan’s tongue from his throat?
Tiera had been asking herself the same question for hours, and the answer was always the same: For Fitz.
The homeless were the only ones she could hide among now; the Courtesans’ Guild had more Watch and private security than the train station and the banking house combined—that runt Zoven had called in all his favours.
If Fitz was still inside the whore house, Tiera wouldn’t get to him. Anyway, disguised as she was in rags and filth, she’d be lucky to pass as a street girl, never mind a guild-approved one.
She rested against a wall in the depths of Dustwynd. One of Irros’ temples—she’d had more than enough of worship houses in her life, but she needed to conceal herself, and the place was as dark a hole as she could find. Coughing fits and cries wailed in the dark, and the place reeked of finisa piss.
Tiera pulled the blanket she’d stolen and wrapped it around her shoulders, letting herself sink into the shadows.
‘Gots me friends and pals,’ muttered a skinny scuzzer to himself. ‘Need the scuzz, I need it give it to me or I’ll kill ya—sorry… Sorry, mum…’
So many men, women and children down here—all homeless, abandoned by the Council. This damn city—how could a place seem so vast but feel so claustrophobic?
Don’t matter how big it is—I’ll scour every inch to get Fitz—to get revenge. The Watch, the weapons dealer who slapped me. They’ll suffer.
Tiera rested her arms on her knees and let her head dip. Just a few minutes… Just rest my eyes…
But her mind wouldn’t let her sleep.
‘Mind if I sit?’ came a crone’s voice.
Tiera’s eyes snapped open. She had to squint to see the old woman; her craggy skin had more lines than a cliff face. She shifted to give the crone space to sit.
‘Here,’ the woman said, offering Tiera water. ‘Reckon you could be doing wi’ a drink.’
Tiera didn’t move—no-one gave up their water, not for free. ‘What do you want, crone?’
The woman barked a laugh. ‘That’s charming, that is. Offer someone a drink and get insulted for yer trouble.’ The woman slurped at her cup. ‘Name’s Elsie Travers.’
‘Didn’t ask.’
‘Heh. You ain’t from around here.’
‘I’m in no mood to talk.’
‘Suit yerself.’
Elsie slurped more water; the noise was excruciating in Tiera’s ears. She tried to fight it, but she glanced at Elsie’s cup.
With a toothless smile, the old woman held it out.
‘Fine.’ Tiera took the water and downed it. She felt better straight away.
‘There, that ain’t so bad, is it?’ asked Elsie. ‘Ain’t no shame in charity.’
Tiera thrust the cup back into Elsie’s leathery hand and muttered her thanks.
‘You don’t belong here.’ The crone’s voice chirruped like a flickertail’s.
Beneath the blanket, Tiera’s fingers found the hilt of a knife. ‘No-one belongs in this town.’
‘Ain’t that the truth. Where you from?’
Tiera shifted. ‘You should stay away from me.’
Elsie cackled. ‘You young ’uns. Always quick to anger. Aye, reckon it’s the war that did that to ya.’
‘What do you know of it?’
‘Enough. Lost me two daughters. Had a man once, too. Died fighting the Ryndarans half a century ago. Reckon I know more’n you.’
Tiera had her doubts about that. But losing the man you loved—losing kin? No-one deserved that. ‘How… How do you keep going?’ Tiera was surprised to hear her own voice ask the question.
‘Ain’t got a choice,’ Elsie said. ‘What else is there?’
Vengeance.
Tiera wanted to rip Vaughan apart. He deserved to die. But Fitz had calmed the fires that had raged inside Tiera ever since she escaped the monastery—no-one had ever managed that before.
Like an animal, Tiera had fled to save her own life. Yulia wasn’t so lucky. Her own fault for being weak.
Yulia deserved to perish for refusing to fight back. Tiera knew it to be the truth—yet doubt had niggled in her mind every moment since that day, like a tune that wouldn’t disappear. Would Fitz want her to go looking for him? Would he want her putting herself at risk? Would he want her to kill Vaughan?
She’d given up piracy for Fitz, turned her back on her crew, tried to make herself better—but what if she never could?
‘How… How do you know you’re doing the right thing?’ Tiera asked.
‘Right and wrong ain’t always easy to tell apart,’ answered Elsie. ‘All’s you can do is hope to look yourself in the mirror every day and stand it. If you can square something with yourself, then it was the right thing to do—don’t matter what the law says. By all means, better yourself, read books, take up learnin’—but don’t be something you ain’t.’
Symphony of the Wind Page 31
