Ghosts of Sanctuary

by Robert J. Crane

  “Your loss then,” Vaste said. “Humanity has taken some turns in the aesthetics department since we left.”

  “Yes, the garb here is most peculiar.”

  “Not what I meant, but—” Vaste stopped midsentence, his eyes caught on something in the crowd ahead. He’d been looking for more people of that ebony skin tone when his eyes had caught a flash of green.

  Of green … skin.

  He saw it again in the distance, and blinked. There was someone in a cloak, with a cowl pulled up, standing tall above most of the humans in the street. He peered, and saw a bob of dark hair, then a face—

  “Oh my dead gods,” Vaste said, and his mouth fell open and he nearly stood up straight.

  “Aigghhhh,” Curatio grunted, resisting Vaste’s attempt to stand taller. “What the hells are you doing?” the healer asked, trying to pull back as Vaste accidentally nudged his wounded hand.

  Vaste stared, straight ahead, blinked again, and—

  Yes. It was a troll woman with lustrous black hair and perfect green skin, wearing a cowl. She was probably a block and a half away, just—right there—and he lurched forward.

  “What are you doing?” Curatio struggled against him, pulling at his arm, still wrapped around the healer. “Sanctuary is this way.” And he pointed to a cross street.

  Vaste looked up again, transfixed. Where was she? She’d been there, just a moment ago, standing tall over the heads of everyone else on the street and now—

  She was gone.

  “I saw a beautiful troll woman,” Vaste said, barely a whisper.

  “I don’t believe you,” Curatio said. “There are no beautiful troll women.”

  “Well, this one was,” Vaste said, his voice taking on a dreamlike quality.

  “Which is why I think you have seen a mirage,” Curatio said, still pulling back against Vaste’s attempts to go forward. He had to find her, catch up to her and—“Or a delusion.”

  “I’m not the one wounded here!” Vaste said, trying to lift his head up, up, trying to get tall so he could see her again. She had to be there—she’d been right there.

  “Then it was prompted by the sight of my blood, clearly.” Curatio fought against the attempt to stand taller. “You are going to expose yourself, fool.”

  “There was a troll woman walking down the street here,” Vaste said, tugging at him as he stood. “I saw her.”

  “It doesn’t matter now,” Curatio said, brandishing his wounded hand. “We need to get back to Sanctuary so I can tend to this. I am in pain!”

  “So am I!” Vaste shot back. “Do you know what it’s like to live in the shadow of Cyrus and Vara’s bedroom antics, knowing you might go to your grave having never experienced such pleasures?”

  Curatio fell silent, and Vaste paused, eyes still fixed down the street, a cold realization trickling down his back as what he’d said filtered through his consciousness.

  “… Never?” Curatio asked.

  “You’re in a lot of pain,” Vaste said, trying to brush it under the rug like a shattered vase. “I didn’t say ‘never’ as in never ever, I—oh, hell. Yes, it’s been never ever. I came of age in Gren, fitting in about as well as you’d expect, and after that … well, I think you lesser races are a little too flimsy and intimidated for me.” He raised his head again. Where had she gone? “But this woman … she was a troll. Tall. Mighty. But—dressed smartly, like a normal human!”

  “There is no such thing as a normal human,” Curatio growled. “But … your point still stands. Do you see her?”

  “No,” Vaste said, blinking. Perhaps she truly had just been a figment of his imagination.

  That was a disheartening thought. Part of him wanted to rush ahead, check in every door near where she’d vanished, look within every shop within miles, ask every person standing on the sidewalks if they’d seen her.

  But that would be a sure way to generate much attention for himself, and no good could come of that. Not while Curatio’s wound needed tending. “We should get back to Sanctuary,” Vaste said, trying to fix in his mind this location. He tried to burn the memory of the buildings here into his mind so he could return later, to recall this place even days or weeks from now, should the need arise.

  Putting his arm more firmly around the weakened Curatio, he turned down the cross street and began to walk back toward the alley where Sanctuary waited. But his thoughts stayed behind with the troll woman he’d seen on the street.

  21.

  Cyrus

  “You have taken a woman,” Cyrus said, his blade against the neck of a young tough who stared back at him wide-eyed with horror, “from her very home, and hold her captive. Tell me where she is and I will make this swift.” Alaric coughed behind him, and Cyrus rolled his eyes. “Tell me where she is,” Cyrus amended, “and I will maybe perhaps consider letting you continue to draw breath.”

  “Hell of a deal,” Vara said, doing a little eye rolling of her own. “Just break his limbs until he talks.”

  Cyrus shot her a look, as did Alaric, but the Ghost spoke first. “You’ve made a stunning transformation into a dark knight.” The smell of coal dust was heavy in this place, almost oppressive, and it hung in the air worse than the ash in the city.

  “As it turns out, paladin is just an artificial title created by the Leagues to keep spellcasters weak, yes?” Vara kept her gaze intent on him. “So …” She shrugged.

  “That’s not—entirely accurate,” Alaric said with a sigh. “And I would hope you would have your own personal moral compass regardless of what the so-called gods saw as a worthy path.”

  “Can I—can I just get a word in here?” the tough asked, Cyrus’s blade still at his throat.

  “Do you think it’s wise?” Cyrus asked, pushing Praelior—ever so gently—against his throat.

  “Gurk,” the man said, then, more hoarsely, “Maybe not.”

  The coal yard had not been quite what Cyrus expected. There had only been a small shack on the premises dedicated to the Machine, the entirety of the rest of the place being consumed with running the actual coal yard. Even at this hour groups of men in the yard were doing the hard work of shoveling coal into wheelbarrows that were then carted out onto the street and off to their destinations.

  “I have my honor,” Vara said, “but I am not above asking difficult questions of human refuse at this point.”

  “But does your honor not ache at the idea of physically harming someone just to get them to talk?” Alaric asked.

  “Have I done so yet?” Vara asked, arching an eyebrow at him. Cyrus got it.

  So did the man with the sword at his throat. “Ohh, you’re not going to actually hurt me,” he said, and let out a breath of clear relief. “That is—just so fortunate, because—I was about to tell you everything, honestly.”

  Cyrus reached out and struck him in the chest, causing him to grunt in pain. A couple ribs broke under his hit. “They’re paladins; I’m not.”

  “Thank you for making that clear,” the man said in a weak, pained voice. Now Cyrus was having to fight to keep him upright against the pull of gravity. “Okay, I’m ready to talk again.”

  Cyrus looked back to see Vara with a gleam of triumph in her eye and Alaric looking wearied and possibly annoyed, though it was difficult to tell under his helm. “Tell us what you know about this woman you’ve taken.”

  “I didn’t take any woman—uh, tonight,” the guy said, wheezing and clutching at his side, “neither did anyone from here.” Cyrus lifted the blade higher, pushing it a half-centimeter or so deeper into his neck. “Whoa, whoa! You want a woman? I can get you a woman. I can get you five women. A hundred. We take them all the time, I’m just saying we didn’t take any this morning or last night—”

  “Confession may be good for the soul, but I doubt trying to mollify us in this way is going to increase your chances of survival,” Cyrus said.

  “I—I—what do you want from me?” the man asked, still clutching at himself.

 
“Decency,” Alaric said, staring at him hard, his eye focused on the man. “Which is plainly not forthcoming.”

  “Tell us about the Machine,” Vara said. “Who runs this place? Who do you report to?”

  “Are you crazy?” the man asked, eyes growing wide. “They’ll kill me.”

  “That’ll happen pretty definitely if your head comes off,” Cyrus said, pushing the sword in just a little deeper. “But if you survive us, you might just be able to run from the Machine. Die now for certain, die later maybe—tough choice, but it’s all you’ve got. Choose.”

  “You’re not going to kill me,” the man said, and nodded at Alaric, “not in front of your old man. It’d offend his honor.”

  Cyrus looked at Alaric. “Maybe you should leave.”

  Alaric stood there, stiff and still for a long moment. “Perhaps I should,” he said at last, and he vanished in a cloud of mist which fell to the floor and then receded out the door.

  Cyrus turned back to the man with a gleam in his eye, and pushed Praelior just a little deeper, enough to break skin. “Now that we’re alone … I’ve grown weary of you, and I doubt you have anything interesting to say. Prove me wrong in two seconds or say farewell.”

  “I don’t believe you,” the man said, jutting his chin out defiantly. “You wouldn’t—”

  Cyrus pushed the sword in, and the artery in his neck began to leak, a little at first, and then more. The man’s eyes lit up in surprise as the blade began to cut into his throat. “Wait, wait—” he said, and Cyrus pushed just a little deeper—

  The man’s hands flew to his neck, trying to restrain the geyser of blood shooting out. “Gurkkk,” he said, and Cyrus mumbled a healing spell under his breath. It wasn’t much, but then, neither was the wound—

  The man brought his hands back from his neck to reveal a slight gouge that remained beneath the blood that covered his throat. He drew a couple of rasping, experimental breaths, and looked Cyrus right in the eye. “What … did you just do to me?”

  “I healed you,” Cyrus said, “but I won’t do it again, so … talk.”

  The man seemed to stagger on his feet, eyes racing left to right, playing for time. “About … what?”

  “All right, I’m killing him,” Vara said, unsheathing her sword.

  “No, no, no!” the man said, throwing up a hand at her. “You—you, I believe. Okay, I will tell you—uhm, I report to a man named Touhmes, and he works out of a mill about ten blocks from here at the corner of Crescent and Mill Street. His boss is a guy named Tirner Gaull,” the man said, still rubbing at his neck, “And Gaull—well, I don’t know where he works. But he shows up every now and again when I’m at the flour mill.”

  “How many other hideouts does the Machine have in this area?” Cyrus asked.

  “Hideouts? None,” the man said.

  Cyrus’s eyes narrowed, but Vara beat him to the question. “What else does the Machine have in this area?”

  “They own half the buildings in town,” the man said, still rubbing his neck and looking quite stricken. “They don’t use them themselves, but—I mean, they have rent collectors and they charge—oh, they make you pay through the nose.”

  Cyrus frowned. “Why would they demand payment through a nose? Would not it be simpler to just take it from their hand?”

  “What?” the man asked, putting up his hands. “No, that’s not—it means—”

  “Oh, I think it’s figurative, the nose thing,” Vara said.

  “Ohhh,” Cyrus said. “It was very confusing. I tried to imagine people stuffing those paper notes up their noses for safe keeping. Seems like it would hurt.”

  “Indeed,” Vara said, and then took Ferocis and put the tip right up the man’s nose. “What is your name?”

  He stared at the blade sticking out of his nostril. “Guy.”

  “How original,” Vara said. “Now, Guy … what is the Machine’s response going to be to someone attacking their operations in the city?”

  Guy’s eyes were wide and focused on the sword blade in his nostril, crossed as he stared at the tip of his nose. “I don’t know. It’s never happened before. No one’s been crazy enough to cross the Machine like this until you two came along.”

  “Hear that?” Cyrus asked, “Guy says we’re special.”

  “The thousand years of life, the songs sung to your deeds, and all the statues had not already convinced you of this?” Vara asked.

  “Well, it’s nice to have a reminder every now and again.”

  “Are we about done here?” Guy asked. “Because I need to catch an airship somewhere. I hear Vanreis is nice this time of year. Maybe Muceain or Suijnara. Binngart, even, though those fricking Rannin are a stiff bunch of—”

  “I’m nearly done with this kidnapping, possibly murdering piece of swine,” Cyrus said. “You, my lovely bride?”

  “Yes, I am quite nearly done with him,” Vara said, and pushed the sword just a millimeter further up his nasal passage. “A little force blast through the tip of my sword and I expect his brains will empty all over the wall …”

  “Ahhhh … normally I wouldn’t believe you’re a mage of any kind,” Guy said, “but your hubby there already showed me the whole ‘healing light’ bit, so, uhm—please don’t?”

  “I have a feeling there’s something you’re not sharing with me, Guy,” Vara said, leaning toward him, “and this bothers me. You might even say it makes me … irate.” Her voice was steady. “You see, we came here looking for a certain woman, and while you’ve been very forthcoming in the name of saving your own skin—I still don’t have what I want. And as my husband here can tell you—when I am disappointed, I tend to handle it … poorly.”

  Guy stared at the end of his nose. “I’m … so sorry to hear that. Probably comes from the upbringing. You should blame your parents. Were you overindulged as a child or—ah—ah—AHHHHHH!”

  Vara pushed the tip and forced Guy to standing on his tip toes to keep Ferocis from impaling his skull or simply ripping his nose off. “My childhood is not a topic of discussion here. We’re talking about the last secret you hold; the one you’re keeping back from us in hopes of fleeing this place with your miserable life intact so that you may take it and go slithering back to your masters, able to say, ‘But at least I did not tell them this!’” Her voice went nasal and mocking, a solid imitation of Guy’s. She leaned in. “But you will tell us. And then you will go catch an airship to somewhere far from here. Either your life in Reikonos is over, or your life, in total, is over. Make your choice swiftly.”

  Only a half-second of calculation passed through Guy’s eyes before he started to speak again. “Okay, so maybe there is this one thing that came to mind when you mentioned a woman being taken—”

  “I had a feeling your memory required some jogging,” Vara said, then slapped him gently on his belly where it overhung his belt a little. “Like the rest of you.”

  “If this person was taken locally, but they’re not in any of the local grab houses—that means, uhm,” Guy went on, “they’re not women being put to, uh, immediate use.” He swallowed heavily.

  Cyrus gripped his sword hilt tighter, and Vara, sensing it, held up a hand behind her to stay his blade.

  “Anyway, if this lady was taken for reasons other than, uh—well, other than, uhm—the—”

  “Other than selling her as a slave or a woman of the night,” Vara said tightly.

  “Yeah, that,” Guy said hoarsely. “She’d probably be held in a central location.” His eyes darted to Cyrus. “I don’t know where that is. Somewhere past the statue. The big one. In Davidon Park. Can’t miss it. But beyond that, I dunno. That’s as far as I’ve ever gone with any of the bigwigs that have come through, so you’re going to have to talk to someone else higher up the chain if you want the exact location.”

  “They named a park after me?” Cyrus asked, pressing his lips together. “Finally I get to see if the likeness is good.”

  “It’s not,” Guy said. “Yo
u don’t look anything like Cyrus Davidon.” He seemed to realize he’d erred, and his eyes went back to wide. “I mean, uh—it’s a terrible likeness. The sculptor should be fired. Then, uh, exposed to fire. Many, many pistols fired at him—at his hands. Maybe his eyes, since they’ve failed so completely—”

  “You’ve been gone a thousand years,” Vara said in a conciliatory tone, “how would a sculptor have accurately chiseled out your good looks after this amount of time?”

  “Clearly needed to hire an elf who’d met me,” Cyrus grumbled, then shifted his attention back to Guy. “What do we do about him? Seems to me if he knows where this supposed central location is for the Machine, he might be holding it out on us.”

  “I don’t think so,” Vara said, withdrawing Ferocis from Guy’s nostril and wiping it on his shirt. “He seems like the sort of low-level flunky who’d be intentionally excluded from such things, even via gossip.”

  “It’s true,” Guy said, nodding. “I am very low-level. I am a flunky. I don’t even get to clean the boots of the big guys.”

  “Very well,” Vara said, regarding him with indifference. “I’d suggest you hurry to catch your airship. It would be a true shame if your employers were to catch you. Though I have a feeling they’re about to be busy for a while chasing their own tails—and possibly us.”

  “Good luck with that,” Guy said, bolting for the door and disappearing through it, the shack rattling as he bounced off the frame.

  “What do you think the likelihood is that he runs straight to his masters?” Cyrus asked, walking to the door and looking out to make sure some Machine ambush hadn’t encircled them while they’d been talking to Guy. The coal yard seemed to be functioning as normal; orders coming in, orders going out.

  Well, they’d fix that in a minute.

  “Low,” Vara said, stepping past him and out into the open air. The sun was rising, and her cloak trailed behind her, a layer of grey ash already covering it from merely walking around this city. Her armor did not shine as it usually did, and it reminded him of the time in Termina when Santir’s ash had covered it over during the battle upon the bridge. “Did you see the look in his eyes? He’ll be running from them for the rest of his life, at least in his mind.”