Death's Avenger- The Malykant Mysteries, Volume 2

by Charlotte E. English

Llandry

  Evastany

  For a full, up-to-date list of current titles visit my bibliography at www.charlotteenglish.com/my-books/

  Snowbound

  Chapter One

  The proud city of Ekamet, jewel of the realm of Assevan, wears the pale, icy verdure of the Bone Forest like a mantle, shrouded as it is on all sides by miles of contorted, thick-clustering trees — except, of course, for where its ancient buildings give way to the sea. Out beyond the confines of the Bones, the plains stretch for many miles farther north. Drowned in snow for much of the year, they are loosely scattered with knots of haggard evergreens, and an occasional stout little town braving all the worst that winds and storms can throw at it. Some of these are built from brick and wood and stone, and endure; others are just for the winter, the walls of their dwellings wrought from stacked blocks of snow and translucent ice.

  They are not always rude, primitive structures. Houses of extraordinary grace rise from the blanketing snows, thriving upon the bone-deep chill of the Assevan winter. Just such a one has lately sprung up unusually close to the city — only three miles north of its gates.

  It had not been there for long before it began to attract notice, for even in a realm of wonders it must excite remark. A castle in miniature, its jumble of turrets and towers glint, clear and cold, under the wan winter sun; its grand doors, exquisitely carved, stand open, an invitation to all; it even possesses a semblance of windows, each pane cut from translucent ice. Word of the marvel spread from town to town, and at last to Ekamet itself, whereupon it caused an instant sensation — for two things about the ice castle excite comment. One, its extraordinary beauty; for its ice mosaics, its snow sculptures, and carved furniture of snow-dusted ice make a fairy palace fit for kings and queens.

  The other, the elaborate designs built into its soaring walls. Wrought with splendid skill, they depict vast summer trees, their leaf-laden branches spreading in icy pallor across the walls; bears and birds, fish and flowers darting from room to room; and in the great hall, a collection of human figures, arms spread wide, suspended a few feet from the floor, their snow-white faces staring sightlessly down upon those whose footsteps and wondering chatter disturb their icy slumber.

  These number five, extraordinarily detailed. Lifelike, if such still, silent figures could ever be called such. Days passed before anyone grew bold enough to touch the sculptures upon the walls, to brush at the snow that formed the feet and legs of the five watchers.

  Then, a shoe was revealed.

  It was not, like its many counterparts, carved from glittering snow. A mere ordinary boot, of old black-dyed leather frozen stiff, it belonged to a giant of a man, his broad, bear-like form swathed in a heavy cloak of snow, his thick hair a halo of pallid ice around his head. His eyes were closed, his face still beneath its layer of enshrouding snow.

  These were no sculptures.

  Five dead faces stared, glassy-eyed, from the walls of the ice palace, ringing the great hall in macabre splendour. Five glacial figures hung in forlorn companionship, but one was given a prominence not shared by his fellows: a youngish man, slender of figure and well-dressed, set higher than the rest, and positioned directly opposite the grand, wide-flung doors.

  Rumour claimed that, alone of the five, he was not wholly encased in ice; for he (it was said by some of those who had passed that way) had more than once been observed to open his eyes.

  And while no one could be found to confirm the rumour, this report, too, winged its way back to Ekamet.

  Konrad Savast sat at the table in his breakfast-parlour. His cook had provided a sumptuous array of breakfast dishes for his delectation; a fire blazed merrily in the hearth; and he sat at his ease in his favourite morning coat, surrounded by comforts yet feeling anything but serene.

  For on this frigid morning — unlike nearly all the preceding mornings, for more years than Konrad cared to think of — he was not alone.

  ‘I do so enjoy toast,’ Nanda commented, spreading a thick layer of butter upon her third slice. ‘And this is the very best, Konrad. I do not often envy you the luxury you wallow in, but I believe I shall make an exception of your breakfast table.’

  ‘Wallow?’ he echoed. ‘Do I?’

  Nanda cast a considering eye over the figure Konrad made, lounging in an upholstered chair before the fire, a cup of steaming chocolate before him and a plate laden with perfectly cooked delicacies. ‘Is this in any way unusual for you?’

  ‘No.’

  Nanda inclined her head, gracious in victory. ‘Precisely.’

  Konrad grunted something inaudible in reply. Even he could not have said what it was.

  Her eyes twinkling, Nanda consumed her toast with leisurely relish, and moved on to coffee and eggs. Unlike Konrad, she was fully dressed for the day, clad in a garnet-coloured gown with white frills at the collar and cuffs. A thick shawl draped over her shoulders and arms, but despite this and the blaze roaring away not four feet from her chair, she did not appear warm. No roses flourished in her pale cheeks; she looked white, even more so than usual, and despite her obvious determination to appear lively, Konrad detected more than one sign of weariness in her.

  ‘Are you warm enough?’ he said.

  ‘Perfectly, thank you.’

  ‘Your chair could perhaps edge just a bit nearer to the fire, if you wanted.’

  ‘Doubtless, but I should be sorry to set my boots alight. I am especially fond of this pair.’

  ‘Another shawl? I’ll send a maid to fetch one from your room—’

  Nanda set down her porcelain cup with a ringing snap. ‘I am well,’ she informed him, in a crisp tone which brooked no argument. ‘Please don’t fuss.’

  ‘I’m concerned for you.’ Unsure what to do with his hands, Konrad picked up his own cup and gulped chocolate.

  She softened, slightly. ‘You need not be.’

  He had no response to make to that, for how could he argue? Nanda had never voluntarily taken him into her confidence. He had learned by accident that she was, in some way, ill; she had never chosen to elaborate as to how, or what it meant for her.

  So he sat and drank, burning his mouth on the sweet, scalding beverage, and wracked his brains for some way of supporting her, but without seeming to do so.

  He came up with nothing. Nan was far too clever for such subterfuge. She would catch him at it in no time, and he knew better than to imagine that she would appreciate what she persisted in terming his “fussing”.

  But he had no cause for complaint, for Nanda had been a guest at Bakar House for over a week. Never had he ever thought she would consent to stay so long. Upon their return from the town of Divoro, and the house party they had unwisely attended there, Nanda had accepted his offer of accommodation at once and gone, subdued, to bed. She had not emerged from her chamber until two days later, whereupon she avoided discussing any of the events of those few, harrowing days with Konrad.

  He knew better than to force the issue. She grieved for Kati Vinter, her mother’s friend; for Alen Petranov, an old acquaintance of hers; and for the smallest, most heart-breaking victim of all, a child carelessly slain by the would-be heir of the house. Konrad could not cease to think of these things himself, nor of the dark secrets the house held — chief among them the coven of necromantic sorcerers that lurked among the shadows and the depths of the grand old house. He wanted to talk of these things, but Nanda did not; so he brooded over them alone.

  He had, upon returning home, met speedily with Diana Valentina, head of The Malykt’s Order. Troubled by his news, she had dispatched several excellent men and women of the Order to investigate the house at Divoro right away.

  They had found… nothing. No coven; not even the slain bodies of their victims. The house possessed the eerie, silent air of a building long abandoned, and not the smallest signs of life, or of recent habitation, had been discovered.

  It was as though the party and its horrific events had never happened at all.

  If only
that were true.

  Inspector Nuritov — no, Konrad corrected himself; Alexander — had come three times to dine with them. Konrad read in the detective’s mild eyes a sense of deep-seated trouble, and suspected that he came to air his distress among those who had endured those terrible days with him. But he, too, bowed to Nanda’s obvious disinclination and held his peace.

  And so the deaths of two guests, the slaughter of the child, and the predations of some of the house’s most depraved inhabitants went unmentioned — until later that same morning, when Konrad had but just set aside (with customary regret) his comfortable morning-coat in favour of more correct attire. Nanda, full of toast and brittle cheer, had taken herself away to her favourite parlour, the small, snug one with the green silk furnishings and large, bright windows, to while away the morning with a book. For all her apparent disdain for Konrad’s luxuries, she clearly took great pleasure in the sharing of them, at least at present. Or was it the company she sought? Tough as she was, she was not impervious to horror. If she was minded to cling to Konrad for a little while, Konrad was in no way disposed to discourage it.

  The doorbell rang. Ensconced in the library with a newspaper, Konrad paid no heed to the low, murmured tones of his butler, Gorev, as he intercepted and interrogated the visitor. But the footsteps which shortly afterwards approached the library door struck him as familiar, and as he formed that thought, there came a tap upon the door and Alexander Nuritov’s face appeared, peeking apologetically around the door.

  ‘Your butler said I might find you here,’ he remarked.

  ‘He has instructions to admit you whenever I am at home.’ Konrad put aside his paper, and remembered to smile a welcome. The inspector had become something of a friend in recent weeks, but Konrad — so long devoid of friends, save perhaps for Nanda — had forgotten how such a relationship worked.

  Thankfully, Alexander did not seem minded to take umbrage when Konrad frequently forgot the pleasantries. A mild-mannered man, he made no objection to the long silences when Konrad forgot to talk, nor was he offended by Konrad’s lack of confidences when he did not. Today, though, he was different. The passage of a week and more had slightly dulled the impressions of Divoro, so Konrad had previously judged, for the distress had faded somewhat from his face, and he had stopped fidgeting with his pipe. But now it was all come back. Alexander’s favourite pipe was in his hand, unlit; as he stood, apparently unsure how to begin, he raised it to his lips and held it there, though there was nothing to smoke. His eyes searched Konrad’s face, and then travelled restlessly around the crammed bookshelves of the library.

  ‘What is it?’ Konrad said, when still the inspector did not speak.

  Alexander sighed, and half-sat, half-fell into the nearest chair. ‘Have you heard the news?’

  Konrad glanced, puzzled, at the paper he had just set down. ‘Which particular piece of it?’

  ‘Oh, it is not in the newspaper. Not yet. Word of mouth only. I had it from two of my constables this morning, who cite two separate sources, both street-folk.’

  Konrad waited.

  ‘There is a new ice-house,’ Alexander said, too heavily for the banality of the subject matter, and Konrad frowned. ‘A ways north. Splendid place, apparently, like a castle, only much smaller. Turrets, that sort of thing. Sculptures. No word as to who might have had the time, the money and the motive to build such a place in the middle of nowhere.’

  ‘You did not come here just to tell me about a minor architectural wonder,’ Konrad said.

  ‘Ah — no, I did not.’ Alexander lit his pipe, and inhaled. ‘The story is so absurd I hardly know whether to imagine it the truth, but it could be. It could be.’

  ‘What story?’ Konrad concealed his impatience as best he could. It was not like the inspector to ramble so.

  ‘They say that some of the sculptures are not sculptures at all.’ Alexander puffed twice upon the pipe, exhaling fragrant smoke. ‘They are… people. Too convincing to be mere carvings. There are five of them, up on the walls.’

  Konrad stilled. ‘People?’ he repeated.

  ‘Stone dead. Packed up there in snow.’

  Picturing this, Konrad was briefly bereft of words. So macabre a display was… unheard of, even in his long experience as the Malykant. Who would go to such trouble? What could possibly be the reason for it? ‘Are you sure?’ he said at last.

  ‘No,’ said Alexander. ‘Because it’s also said that… well, that with one of them, the eyes sometimes open. That cannot be, of course, so it is likely that the whole report is mere rumour, or superstition—’ he stopped, for Konrad had rocketed out of his chair. ‘What is it?’

  Konrad could not say what it was in the inspector’s words that had so electrified him. He only knew that he was gripped by a fierce urgency. ‘My carriage, five minutes,’ he informed an astonished Alexander. ‘I’ll fetch Nanda.’

  Chapter Two

  The pale, winter-bare trees of the Bone Forest sailed by beyond the windows as Konrad’s carriage made its way, at inadvisable speed, due north. He’d told his coachman to hurry, and the man had taken the order seriously. Wheels spun and slid on the snowy road and the three occupants endured the journey with white-knuckled grip upon their seats.

  Konrad sat in grim silence. He knew he was disturbing Nanda and alarming Alexander, but he could find nothing to say to reassure them. A knot of steel had his stomach in a vice, and breathing had become challenge enough. If his fears were correct, nothing he could say could prepare Nanda for what lay ahead.

  The moment the coach slowed, Konrad flung the door open and jumped out. He sank up to his ankles in powdery snow, and spared a moment’s futile wish that he had thought to change his attire before barrelling out of the city. Nothing for it but to ignore the slow seep of melting snow inside his city shoes—

  He stopped dead, eight or nine paces into the trees. A clearing opened up ahead, a wide space hosting one of the most elaborate and exquisite snow structures Konrad had ever beheld. The sheer grace of its turrets stole his breath; the glitter of wan sunlight on icy, perfect windows mesmerised him.

  When recognition hit, it hit hard.

  ‘That’s the…’ he began as Nanda came up next to him. ‘The— the house at Divoro.’ It was; he did not imagine it. The house was a perfect replica in every feature of the near-palatial mansion he and Nanda had recently attended as guests, only this version was far smaller.

  ‘Gods,’ whispered Nanda.

  Konrad ran. His long legs devoured the distance between the road and the pair of great, ice-carved doors which graced the front of the house. They stood half-open; Konrad darted inside and came to a skidding stop in the centre of the great hall.

  Suspended before him, halfway up the opposing wall, hung the frozen shape of a slender man, arms outspread. Two figures flanked him on either side: to his left was a bear of a man with broad shoulders and a mane of ice-crusted hair, a young woman with wide, snowy skirts his next neighbour. On the other wall hung a second woman and another man. Few identifying characteristics marked these snowbound sculptures; identical in posture, each with out-flung arms and raised chins, they stared sightlessly at the domed ceiling of their ice prison.

  Konrad turned in a slow circle, and then again, his mind blank with horror. Despite their uniform presentation, despite the featureless, pristine snow which blanketed their faces, their limbs and their clothes, he knew who they were. He knew who all of them were.

  He did not realise Nanda had caught up with him until he heard her choke. ‘Eino,’ she gasped in a terrible, hoarse voice. ‘Lilli? Marko? It… this cannot be.’

  ‘Eino Holt,’ said Konrad bleakly. ‘Alina Holt. Marko Bekk. Lilli Lahti. And— and Denis Druganin.’ Their host at last week’s house party at Divoro; his mother; their fellow guests.

  Nanda stood like a statue, barely breathing. Alexander came up on Konrad’s other side and stood in a like silence, and for some moments no one spoke.

  ‘I thought they were saf
e,’ Nanda finally said, and her voice broke on the final word. ‘We put them on the stage — they should have reached home days ago.’

  They had gone to some trouble to ensure that the house was empty before they’d departed themselves, and so it had seemed. Except for the body of Denis Druganin. Konrad had killed the man himself, and left his misshapen remains splendidly alone in his own chamber of horrors. He’d thought the Order would have cleaned it up.

  Apparently not.

  Konrad took a slow breath, mentally kicking himself. Time enough for self-reproach later; he had to focus. If only the fist of steel in his belly would let up, let him breathe—

  ‘Savast,’ said Alexander, gripping his arm. ‘Steady.’

  Konrad did not want to imagine what the good inspector had seen in his face just then. He swallowed down his horror and regret, thrust away fear, retained only the slow, simmering burn of anger that warmed his chilled limbs and fired his heart. Fury: that he would keep.

  ‘I am well,’ he said, his words ringing with a strength he was yet only halfway to feeling. He went to Nanda, steadied her with a light touch to her hair and a reassuring grip of her fingers. She barely seemed to feel it. Her pale eyes turned up to his with an expression of heart-breaking sadness — and a rage to match his own. ‘That damned coven,’ she hissed. ‘We should have stayed, Konrad, until we’d found them. Until we’d wiped them out.’

  ‘I know.’ He kissed her forehead. ‘This time, we will.’

  He moved a few paces away, seeking a moment’s quiet reflection. There were messages here, and he needed to read them clearly. The coven of Divoro must be behind this grisly display, but Konrad struggled to guess at their motivation. Yes, he had deprived them of Druganin; by the man’s own account, he had been their tool, one who arranged for them to receive a regular supply of dead (or, still worse, living) organs for their twisted purposes. The inclusion of Druganin’s corpse in this little pageant might be best taken as a declaration of war; simple enough there.