At that moment, a loud cry echoed from the staircase. “Dodger!”
Ilanna turned in time to see a tall, broad-shouldered man stomping down the stairs. His dull brown clothing was a mess, his almost handsome, too-angular face reddened by drink, drugs, sex, or a combination of the three.
Behind him, a fancy-tickler clad in multi-colored veils stood at the top of the stairs, anger twisting her features. “Dodger!” she cried.
The man had taken three steps toward the door when the bouncer stepped in his way.
“Move aside!” the man snapped.
“Sorry, sir, but I’m afraid you haven’t paid the lady for her time yet.” Celesa spoke in a quiet voice that held no threat, but she stood unwavering.
The man loomed over the Issai girl. “Piss off!” he snarled. “When I come to The Gilded Chateau, I’m paying for a good time. When I don’t get that good time, I don’t pay.”
“Those are not the rules of the house, sir.” Again, Celesa spoke in a calm, almost placating tone. “You pay the women for their time. Whether or not you enjoy it is entirely up to you.”
“You train your women better, they’d actually make decent whores.” The man swayed under the effects of alcohol and anger.
“Sir, there are no whores in this establishment.” Tension lined Celesa’s umber-colored face. “If you want whores, perhaps you’re better off looking among the bordellos outside the Praamian Wall. But if you desire the company of the women at The Gilded Chateau, you treat them with respect and pay them fairly.”
“Do you know who I am?” The man’s voice rose to a roar.
“No, sir, but I’m certain your coin is as good as any other Praamian man’s.”
Ilanna marveled at the way Celesa kept her cool. Had it been her, she would have ripped off the man’s gonads and rammed them down his throat by now.
Which is probably why I’m not hired to work at places like this. She could be as cool and level-headed as anyone else, but there were certain circumstances—this one, for example—when her temper got the best of her.
“I am a nobleman of Praamis, a close personal friend to Duke Phonnis, and wealthy enough to buy this place a dozen times over!” The man was shouting, his spittle flying into Celesa’s face.
“Then you should have more than enough gold to cover the lady’s time.” The Issai girl actually managed to keep her hands by her sides and away from her truncheon. “After you have done that, you are welcome to leave.”
“And if I choose to go now?” The man’s eyes narrowed. “You think you can stop me?”
The bouncer gave him a too-sweet smile. “I’d rather not find out, sir.”
Ilanna winced as the nobleman made to push past Celesa. He’d taken exactly one step when she snaked an arm around his shoulder, tucked her hip behind his, and flipped him over backward. The man’s feet flew off the ground and he slammed into the wooden floor with bone-jarring force.
When he managed to rise, his face was purple with rage. “Big mistake, bitch!” He ripped an ornate, straight-edged knife from its sheath at his belt. “You’re going to suffer for that!” With a roar, he charged Celesa.
Chapter Six
The Hunter chafed with impatience as his carriage rolled through The Gardens on its way to Baronet Wyvern’s mansion. He knew little about the man, save for the fact that he came from one of Praamis’ nouveau-riche families—a fortune made by smart trades in Voramian steel shares when the mines were first discovered.
Like all men who bore titles of lesser nobility, Baronet Wyvern had overcompensated by investing in a mansion that left extravagant far behind. It looked more like a fortress, all solid stone, rooftop battlements, even a wooden gate with a spiked steel portcullis. The five-story manor was finished with the light grey marble popular among the nobles of Praamis and Voramis.
The manor was modest by the standards of The Gardens. Grassy lawns, tasteful hedges, and ornamental trees surrounded the mansion itself, with a white paving stone walkway leading up from the Path of Penitence, the main thoroughfare, to the enormous covered archway and double doors of the front entrance.
The Hunter snorted. What a stupid waste of money. Baronet Wyvern had likely spent a vast portion of his fortune on the property, yet all for what? What sort of man could need something so needlessly opulent?
The Hunter had purchased his own Praamian mansion—Lord Anglion’s mansion—for a pittance from the family of one of the minor Voramian noblemen he’d been hired to kill. A necessary investment for his previous life as the assassin of Voramis.
“Here we are, sir,” Rayf called out as he slowed the coach in front of the mansion.
The Hunter stepped out of the coach, his heeled boots and gold-tipped walking cane clacking loudly on the white marble paving stones. Immediately, the double doors flew open and a rail-thin, white-haired man with the prim demeanor and permanent haughty frown of a majordomo hurried out to greet the Hunter.
“Lord Harrenth Anglion calling on Baronet Wyvern,” the Hunter said.
The servant’s face twisted in an exquisite, if visibly false, expression of regret. “Alas, Lord Anglion, but the Baronet is not available at the moment.”
In servant-speak, that could either mean Baronet Wyvern wasn’t on the premises or was engaged in activities not suitable for company.
The Hunter sighed. “How disappointing. I had come to speak with him about business matters of mutual interest. When might he be available?”
“I could not say.” The servant shot a glance over the Hunter’s shoulder—an indication the nobleman was away. “However, I do know that he will be attendance at Lord and Lady Chasteyn’s mansion this evening. Perhaps you could find the time to speak to him then.” He didn’t ask if Lord Anglion was invited to the party—if not, Anglion wouldn’t be worth the Baronet’s time.
The Hunter stifled a grimace. That was the way of the upper crust of cities like Praamis and Voramis. Everything was a battle of subtlety, more about allusions, hints, and things that remained unspoken. Give me a dockside brawl any day!
“Thank you, my man.” The Hunter inclined his head. “I shall be sure to seek him out tonight.”
“Very good, Lord Anglion.” The majordomo gave him a corpse-stiff bow. “Shall I inform the Baronet that you called?”
The Hunter gave a dismissive wave. “No need. Tonight is not far off.”
With another ramrod-straight bow, the white-haired man spun on his heel and strode back into the mansion.
“Where to, sir?” Rayf asked as the Hunter climbed into the coach.
The Hunter hesitated a moment. “Take me home, Rayf.”
“Very good, my lord.” Rayf knuckled his forehead and gathered up the traces. The Hunter had barely closed the door and settled against the leather seat when the coach jolted forward into motion.
Well, that was a waste of time. He had no desire to attend any fete—the cloying mixture of perfumes, the too-bright dresses, the barely-concealed jab and parry of conversation, and the jangling music of noble parties nauseated him. But if not the party, what do I do?
He relaxed against the seat—playing the Lord Anglion persona came with the perk of comfortable travel, at least—and let his mind work at the problem.
A child was dead. Some insisted that poison was a woman’s weapon, but he’d used his fair share during his years as an assassin. Whatever got the job done.
The dead child had been carrying a blackmail note intended for Baronet Wyvern. There were any number of people that could want leverage over a nobleman, but two options stood out foremost in the Hunter’s mind.
First, and the one he found most likely, was the Abiarazi he’d come to Praamis to hunt. Every demon he’d encountered wielded subterfuge and deceit as sword and shield. The Sage, the leader of the Abiarazi on Einan, had entrusted them with the task of gaining power and influence in their cities. The First and Third had ruled the Bloody Hand in Voramis. Garanis had the power of an Illusionist Cleric in Malandria, and Toramin
had controlled the Order of Midas. Queen Asalah had been dangerously close to replacing the al-Malek as ruler of Al Hani.
Blackmail is certainly a handy tool to convince someone like Baronet Wyvern to fall in line with whatever the demon’s planning.
Yet he couldn’t discard the second option: the Night Guild, the criminal organization that was the Praamian counterpart to the Bloody Hand.
He’d never met anyone from the Night Guild, despite his many visits to Praamis. Graeme had spoken of them with a mixture of respect, irritation, and something close to familiar affection. Yet he had heard plenty of the tales of their cruelty: extortion of merchants, bribery of high-placed city officials, murder by blade and poison, theft, and every manner of crime large and small. They garnered far less fear in Praamis than the Bloody Hand had in Voramis, but rumors still abounded that they had King Ohilmos under their thumbs.
Worst of all, however, were the stories of what the Night Guild did to children. Boys and girls as young as six or seven hauled away from parents or snatched from the streets to undergo all manner of torments, turned into thieves and killers. He imagined that happening to Hailen and it brought rage welling within him.
So what if the Night Guild is actually the one that killed the Bluejacket? The more he thought about it, the harder it proved to shake the thought.
Graeme had spoken of the Night Guild’s alchemists with envy, his eyes sparkling as he spoke of their wondrous inventions: lanterns that shone without a need for fuel, remedies that could heal all but the most severe wounds, ropes light as silk strands but strong as steel. And, of course, a range of poisons, venoms, and toxins that rivaled the collections of the Secret Keepers.
He’d recognized the putrefying smell of the poison that killed the boy, though he’d never heard of any that turned its victim’s lips blue. Why the Night Guild wanted the child dead escaped him, but if they had been the ones to give him the poison, he would make them suffer for it.
Now, the real trick is going to be finding someone from the Night Guild to ask.
In Voramis, everyone had known where to find the Bloody Hand—the criminal organization had ruled the city in all but name. Here, however, the Night Guild cloaked itself under a shroud of secrecy. He doubted anyone who could tell him where to find them would be willing to risk the Guild’s ire.
So how do I go about it? He pondered his options. Dangle Lord Anglion as bait for thieves or hunt them down properly?
The decision was simple: pickpockets and low-level thieves wouldn’t get him what he wanted. No, this is a job for the Hunter.
The carriage rattled through the open gates and up the paved stone walkway toward his Praamian mansion, a four-story, white marble structure as squat and sturdy as a butcher’s mother. His gardens were filled with sweet-scented flowers and blossoming trees rather than useless ornamental shrubs and hedges, and he smiled as his nostrils filled with the delicate aromas of roses, lilies, gardenias, and Snowblossoms. The mansion’s previous occupant might have been a Bonedust-dealing bastard, but he certainly had good taste in landscaping.
“Home sweet home, sir,” Rayf called out as he pulled up in front of the mansion.
“Well done, Rayf.” The Hunter seized his cane and leapt from the coach, eager to be on with his business. “I believe there’s a groom around somewhere to help you with the horses. After that, find your way to the nearest tavern and celebrate our safe arrival, on me.” He flipped the coachman a silver drake.
Rayf’s eyes went wide as he caught the coin. “Thank you, sir. Thank you very much.”
The Hunter nodded and turned toward the mansion’s doors. Generosity bought loyalty and, thanks to the wealth he’d accumulated over a lifetime as the Hunter of Voramis and his journey north to Enarium, he could afford a city’s worth.
The double doors sprang open and three figures rushed from within. The foremost was a grey-haired man in the high collar, black vest, and stiff-pressed trousers of a majordomo, flanked by two manservants in neat uniforms.
“Welcome home, Lord Anglion!” The majordomo spread his arms wide. “I trust you will find we have cared for your property adequately in your absence.”
“Of that, I have no doubt, Absalom.” The Hunter smiled at the man.
Absalom’s wrinkled face broke into a beaming grin, and he ushered the Hunter inside. “Phandros and Leander will see your things to your room at once.”
The Hunter shot a glance at the two trunks strapped to the back of the coach. Beneath the innumerable outfits Lord Anglion would be expected to travel with, all three had false bottoms to conceal an assortment of weaponry, his leather armor, and a few of the “tricks” he had Graeme fashion for him.
“Have them leave the trunks beside my bed,” the Hunter ordered. “There are a few…delicate items I would rather keep to myself.”
“Of course, my lord.” Absalom barked the Hunter’s command to the two servants, then hurried to follow him inside.
The interior of the mansion, at least, could match any in The Gardens for elegance. Tiles of gold-veined grey marble adorned the floors and walls, with fluted columns rising to support the domed roof arching high overhead. Most of the oak, teak, and redwood furniture in the mansion had come from the now-deceased prior owner, and the Hunter hadn’t bothered to change it out. However, he noticed a few new additions—a fashionable new rug in the sitting room, fresh upholstery on the couches and divans in the front parlor, and a gorgeous gilded brass clock on the wall—Absalom had made in his absence.
The Hunter had paid coppers on the imperial for this mansion, and the largest expenses of maintaining the Lord Anglion persona were the salaries of the servants, grooms, and assorted staff employed in is upkeep. Thankfully, a few shrewd investments—he’d always found it easy to predict drops in a company’s value when he was the one hired to kill its owner—earned him more than enough coin to cover the cost. Again, everything had been handled by intermediaries, so no one could tie the Lord Anglion façade to the Hunter of Voramis.
The Hunter turned to the majordomo. “Forgive me, Absalom, but I fear the journey has wearied me. I would retire to my room for rest.”
“Of course, my lord.” Absalom bowed. “I will have the kitchen send refreshments at once.”
“Perfect. And, Absalom, I have been invited to the Chasteyns’ fete tonight, so it is possible that I will not return until morning.” He winked at the old servant. “Or, if the Mistress’ luck smiles on me, a few days, eh?”
“Very good, my lord.” Absalom bowed again.
The Hunter strode up the stairs to the third floor, where two servants had already opened the heavy double doors to the master bedroom. The chamber reeked of wasteful luxury: a massive four-posted bed with genuine Drashi silk canopy, a Bloodbear-skin rug, ebony side tables and chest, and an agar wood dresser, vanity, and cabinet. Only the cabinet had proven of any use—an upgraded Illusionist Cleric-designed locking mechanism ensured his assassin tools and weapons stored within remained undisturbed by Absalom’s cleaning staff.
“If all is to your satisfaction, I will see to my lord’s refreshments.” Absalom left, closing the double doors behind him.
A knock came at the door a moment later, and the two servants entered with the Hunter’s trunks and deposited them beside the bed. They bowed and departed without a word. Less than five minutes passed before the food—a platter heaped with Praamian herb bread, soft Voramian cheeses, and fresh fruit—arrived, accompanied by a perspiring metal pitcher of chilled Snowblossom wine.
The Hunter found himself surprisingly hungry, and finished off the food and half the pitcher of wine quickly. When he was certain there would be no more disturbances, he locked the door and set about unpacking the truly important items from his trunks.
He slipped out of the garish red-and-green suit jacket and vest, glad for the simple comforts of his work clothes. The tunic and breeches were a soft grey that would blend into any crowded street, covered with a near-black cloak perfect for slinking th
rough shadows. The Lady’s Bells had just struck the third hour afternoon, so he’d have to wait a little until night fell. He would take advantage of the last, busiest hours of the day to search the city for any hint of the Night Guild.
Finding them would prove easier said than done. Graeme had spoken of his few interactions with members of the Guild. He might wear spectacles to read, but his eyes were keen to small details, such as the colorful hemming on their clothing that identified Guild members according to their Houses. The Hunter had no idea what each color denoted, but he’d keep a sharp lookout for that identifying mark.
Given the prevalence of the Guild in the city, it can’t be that hard to find one.
And when he did, what then? He patted the dagger strapped to his hip. With Soulhunger’s help, he could get information from anyone.
He strapped his sword out of sight beneath the cloak, considered and abandoned his handheld crossbows, and added three more concealed daggers for good measure. If the Guild truly was as powerful and ruthless as people feared, he’d best be ready for anything.
Just one last detail to take care of.
He stepped toward the vanity and stared at Lord Anglion’s face in the mirror—weak chin, long nose, high cheekbones, and effete pallor. With a grimace, he turned his attention inward and focused on the flesh of his face. Lightning crackled through his body as skin and bone shifted. Pain sizzled through him, and he gritted his teeth to push back a cry. When the agony diminished and he opened his eyes, a new face stared back at him.
Scars crisscrossed the dark features and twisted his upper lip into a sneer. Heavy brows hooded his dark eyes—he’d shifted them from their usual midnight black to a deep brown—and his nose was crooked, as if broken and badly set a few too many times.
Once, what seemed a lifetime ago, he had worn alchemical masks to conceal his true features. But over his journeys, he’d discovered his Bucelarii heritage came with more abilities than just speed, strength, and stamina beyond any normal man. He could literally shift flesh, blood, and bone to transform his face, even parts of his body, however he wanted. A painful process, but one worth suffering through.
Darkblade Justice: An Epic Fantasy Murder Mystery (Hero of Darkness Book 7) Page 5
