Noir Fatale

by Larry Correia

  The guards outside were dead, wounds in their backs.

  The front doors were wide open, and I made my way through them and down into the basement where the vault was. I encountered the occasional corpse. I couldn’t understand why there were so few people inside, but then remembered Vasily and I were to be inside as well. But we’d been drawn out into the betrayal. The vault’s doors were opened too, and inside were three blood-spattered bodies. One of them a Directorate officer, the others the remaining brothers. Their wounds were in the back as well.

  Written in the blood next to them was, “For you, Kristoph.”

  I smeared the message with my boot. She knew I’d follow.

  The room hadn’t been ransacked. There was only so much one woman could carry, after all. But I knew she’d taken what few pieces of summoning phrases we had stored here.

  Strength left my legs, and I collapsed.

  ✧ ✧ ✧

  I woke up in a bed, Petra staring down at me.

  “My darling, Kristoph,” she said, dead eyes staring down at me. “You live.” She leaned down and whispered in my ear, “The Chancellor is here to see you. Get your story straight.” She kissed my cheek, then moved away.

  Then the Chancellor was at my side. He had long, greasy hair and a hooked nose. His skin had the look of a person with a fever.

  “Kristoph Vals,” he said, tasting the name. “I need you to explain why I have dead Directorate officers and why I am missing valuables from the vault.”

  I took a moment to try and sit up. I knew right away it was a bad idea, but I needed a moment. I had a choice: lie or tell the truth. Get caught in a lie, and I’d be executed. Tell the truth, and maybe I’d be shot for incompetence. I opted to try the middle road.

  “I suspected Vasily Bodlen was a traitor,” I lied through clenched teeth. The pain was a great masking agent for the lies. I moved more to keep the pain fresh and real. “I thought, for weeks, he was working with freedom fighters from the remnants of Belgracia. With a woman named Helena Sarchev—at least I think that’s her name; I just found out about her the other night.”

  Now for the tricky part. Stay close to the truth. Admit just enough error to keep below suspicion, but not enough to seem like I was untrustworthy and stupid. “I was fooled at first, Chancellor,” I said. “She staged a mugging, which I thwarted. Then had two more of her people come to my home. I killed them as well. Petra cleaned it.”

  The Chancellor looked over his shoulder at the woman, who nodded. “Continue,” he said.

  “I found out where Vasily and Helena were meeting, overheard their plan, and tried stopping them. I killed Vasily, but got hurt in the exchange.”

  “Why didn’t you get help?”

  “Didn’t know whom I could trust. If Vasily was compromised, then who else could be? It was my job to handle it without bothering you.”

  The Chancellor nodded again. So far, so good.

  I told him where I’d left Vasily’s body. “Maybe the corpse-eaters left it. I’m sure I left a blood trail another officer can follow. I got to our headquarters, found I was too late, and they were already in the building. I got down to the vault, found a dead guard and”—I grimaced in pain; had to sell this part—“I surprised Helena and the two men with her—I think they were her brothers—I killed them, but Helena used the distraction to get away. I’m sorry, Chancellor.”

  The Chancellor’s fevered face split into a ghastly smile, and he began clapping.

  “Vals, you certainly have a talent for stories and lies. I am impressed.” When I began to protest, he held up a hand, cutting me off. “The trouble, Vals, is you aren’t quite convincing enough. You don’t fully commit. You lie without knowing all the facts. You say you killed your partner?” He waved a hand, and an orderly pulled a curtain open to my left. In a bed next to me was Vasily, very much alive. Unconscious, but alive.

  “I assumed…I—”

  “You assumed,” the Chancellor said. “Never assume. If you are going to lie, you have to believe the lie like your life depends on it.” He leaned in closer. “Because right now, Vals, it does. Do you understand what I am saying?”

  I nodded. The threat was clear.

  “Good.” He leaned back in his chair, considering me. “Every story needs a villain and a hero, Vals. No exceptions. What I need you to do is choose your role. Let’s clarify your story. Vasily, over there, actually was a spy working for Belgracian freedom fighters. You apprehended him while suffering a grievous wound. You then, while bleeding to death, followed the freedom fighters back to our building, where you managed to stop most of them. Does that sound like what actually happened?”

  With Vasily’s form at the corner of my vision, I nodded.

  “Excellent. Isn’t that excellent, Petra? I think we have found someone we can trust, don’t you?” Petra nodded, a small smile on her lips. “Have no fear, Vals. The traitor, Vasily Bodlen will be severely punished for his crimes, and you will be rewarded as a hero to the Tsar. Belgracia, you said? Perfect. We’ll execute every child there until they give up the freedom fighters.

  “You have done us a favor, Vals,” he said, and stood. He was a terrifying man, so I didn’t say a thing. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a small pin—an open eye with two crossed swords behind it. He bent over my bed and affixed it to the lapel of my convalescence robe. “You no longer work for Directorate S. You work for me. Welcome to Section 7. I expect great things from you.”

  When he’d left and been gone for a few minutes, Petra returned to my side.

  “Congratulations on your promotion,” she said, and kissed my cheek.

  “You work for him too?”

  She met my question with a flat gaze. “Obviously. Can you make sure your lie becomes the truth?”

  I hesitated. Then I said, “What lie?”

  Petra smiled and winked at me. “Say that in the mirror a few times, just in case. You know what this means, don’t you?”

  “What?”

  “Working for the Chancellor directly is different than being an officer for the Directorate. Greater scrutiny. The Chancellor expects nothing but harsh brutality from his agents. Your story of heroism plays to that requirement. It’s an expectation now. Can you live up to that reputation of violence?”

  I thought of my father, and the violence he’d inflicted on my mother and me when I’d been a boy. Like it or not, I was going to need to have more in common with him than I wanted.

  “Without a doubt.”

  A Goddess in Red

  Griffin Barber

  Some nights, it is far easier to be an immortal monster than others. I don’t complain in order to obtain a measure of sympathy that—if you knew the monstrous things I have done—would, of necessity, be false.

  No, I merely state facts as I know them.

  I see you misbelieve me. Perhaps I should let you decide then?

  Very well…

  ✧ ✧ ✧

  “Honestly, I don’t know what he sees in you,” I said to my reflection in the mirror as I carefully managed the warmth, and by extension, rose of my cheeks. I was well-fed in those days, and preserving a healthy appearance was easy for one of my skill and experience.

  My faithful servant of seven turns, Mennon, smiled from his position behind my left shoulder. I had a wonderful dressing room then. I remember little of the rest of the house on Sukep Row, but I so enjoyed the dressing room. A high-ceilinged corner chamber, well lit by floor-to-ceiling leaded glass windows that were only just coming into vogue at the time. Mennon was always sure to have some new gown or frock for me to wear, as well as fresh gossip from all walks of life.

  I miss Mennon on occasion, and not merely for his ability to flatter. Good help is so hard to find. Especially if one is a necromancer, feared and loathed by so many ignorant souls.

  “You are a great, ageless beauty, Select.”

  “None of that,” I said. My practice of the Art of Necromancy had offended the traditions of the Select,
and they’d revoked my membership long ago. Not long enough for the memory to lose its sting however.

  “What, flattery?” he asked, knowing full well what I meant.

  “Mennon, do not make me regret taking your oath.” I did not need loose lips revealing my nature to the public at large. Most Select showed special vigor in hunting those expelled from their ranks. In order to preserve their monopoly as the only legitimate organization for training those with Talent, the Select were required to aid the temple witch hunters in hunting down Pathless. Some bastards enjoyed it.

  His smile disappeared. “Very well, mistress. No more. But to your question: surely he knows, mistress?”

  “Undoubtedly. Yet still he courts me.”

  Mennon made a flourish, as if to present my beauty before an adoring audience.

  I sniffed derision, though I must admit the red gown set off the jet hair and golden eyes I had at the time to good effect, and the gown rewarded the efforts I made to ensure my figure was acceptable to modern tastes.

  “Perhaps he has some ulterior motive?”

  That gave me pause. I was not used to the unTalented seeking me out because of my practice of the Art. At least, not for its use. Normally, such unTalented persons sought my destruction, and met their own. The life of a necromancer is, of necessity, solitary beyond a certain point. Even those who have the Talent, who don’t seek me out simply to destroy me, merely want to become my apprentice. Most hope to gather for themselves some measure of immortality.

  Yezzul Flint was not possessed of Talent, though his fingers and nimble mind possessed a magick all their own. He was, in certain very small, very secretive circles, known as the greatest thief of his generation. Those circles also whispered that he was so favored of the god of thieves that he’d become a Shepherd of the Crooked Path. It was those same small circles, and their secrecy, that led to our association and, eventually, that evening’s assignation.

  “Perhaps he requires your help in some endeavor?” Mennon asked, daubing my favorite scent in the hollow of my neck.

  “Perhaps.”

  Deciding I would learn Yezzul’s motives in due course, I twitched the gown, settling it to check the fit. Pleased with the result, I gave Mennon leave to carry my compliments and a small gratuity to the tailor. He would, of course, skim, but then I prefer my servants corrupt. How else does one know which way they will turn in a crisis, oathsworn or no?

  ✧ ✧ ✧

  “So then I said, ‘Lady Setep may believe I was here solely to partake of her charms, but that doesn’t make it so!’ Her man pulled a blade, but I was already out the window and on my way by the time he had it ready.”

  Yezzul was handsome, his amber-green eyes were lively, and his style of storytelling even better than his stories, so I rewarded his efforts with a smile and an inviting look.

  His eyes sparkled playfully in the candlelight. Had I a heart that beat without my iron control, I’m sure it would have skipped a beat.

  I gestured at the golden brooch that had occasioned the story and raised my glass. “To stealing hearts as well as beautiful things.”

  Nodding, he raised his glass. “To beautiful things.”

  We drank. Wine has no effect upon me, but I find it salubrious to pretend, even among those that may know something of my nature.

  At length, when I decided I had enough of wine, banter, and flattery, I looked at him from under lowered lashes and asked, “What do you want of me, Yezzul?”

  He leaned in, kissed me lightly on the lips, and said, “If it pleases you to do so, we would share our bodies, and then…”

  “And then?” I asked, stifling a yawn spawned in my doubt that he would furnish me with a novel response.

  “And then…I will ask your assistance in a matter of procuring beautiful things without paying their owners.”

  I had a strong urge to devour him then. I didn’t act on it however, simply watched him a moment, considering. He was pretty enough, and his banter creative, but what pleasures he could provide appeared limited by a lack of creativity. After the many turns of my unnatural existence, I grow bored with everyday happenings. And this time, I had even grown bored with the exercise of my Talent, something I hadn’t thought possible. Time to continue the exercise and mastery of my Talent being my primary reason for seeking out immortality in the first place.

  I must have been silent too long because he said, “You do not seem excited at the prospect.”

  I placed a hand on his cheek, ready to rend his unlined, youthful face should I decide to end him or should he become even more boring. His sparkling eyes stayed my hand. That, and the desire to learn what he thought should excite me.

  “While you are a beautiful man, I have many beautiful things already. I also possess plenty of coin to purchase more, should I want, and making you some minor charm that will help you obtain more of the same scarcely appeases my desire for novelty.”

  He smiled all the wider, surprising me.

  “Why do you smile?” I asked, unable to resist the urge to smile back.

  He looked at me with those sparkling eyes and lowered his voice to a conspirator’s whisper. “Well, Mistress Sunderhaven, I don’t propose you make me some charm to ease my way, I want you along with me on the job itself. Indeed, I think you will find both the item I intend to obtain and the holder of it of…particular interest.”

  I gave a startled laugh when he told me what we would steal. A little while later, I gave him my body. A little after that, he told me who would suffer the loss. I laughed the harder. Before I let him slip into an exhausted slumber, we’d begun laying plans.

  ✧ ✧ ✧

  For the next season or so, Yezzul Flint sought to teach me the skills of a thief. I cannot say I was particularly gifted at any of the more technical disciplines, though I did apply myself diligently to learning what I could. I have a habit of, once interested, attempting to excel in a field of endeavor, so I came to resent the fact that Yezzul’s time frame did not allow me the luxury to train beyond a certain minimal proficiency. I did manage to impress him with my ability to move quietly and, when in the dark, become part of the landscape when still.

  The latter I suspect was due more to being a necromancer than any natural, inborn ability. If one does not require breath to sustain life, one does not make even the slightest movement to draw the eye. And since my limbs do not fatigue in the normal fashion, I could hold position for durations that even the most disciplined thief found impossible.

  On learning of this ability to remain still for prolonged periods, Yezzul quickly began finalizing the plan with this new knowledge.

  The irony was not lost on me: in search of diversion, I would have to submit myself to a period of inactivity so lengthy as to drive most people mad. Of course, I have been called mad before, on more than one occasion. And yet, I am still around to speak of the thin line between genius and madness, between the normal and the monstrous, while my accusers can no longer accuse anyone.

  The only true difficulty I had with the training was Yezzul’s odd insistence that no one be hurt, let alone killed, in the doing of it. I mocked the idea at first, but he was firm about this one point, refusing to offer a reason.

  One night that summer when there were nights warm enough to make stolen flesh half remember old desires, I took him to my bed again. When we were sated, I again asked why, and refused to accept half answers.

  He smiled at me, those sparkling eyes making even my dead heart warm. “Because Istar, the Lord O’ Sevens, requires it. Otherwise we on the Crooked Path are just like the noble-born, the gods-sworn, and the common robber who beats a man flat for a few smuts.”

  “What’s that? Powerful?”

  He shook his head, made the sign of sevens and said, “Merely violent. Taking what we want by hurting people…it’s what they do. If we want his favor, we must hold ourselves to a better, higher standard, and accomplish by wit and nerve what others resort to the blade and fist for.”

&nbs
p; “But what happens when your wits fail you?”

  He laughed and kissed my neck where it met the shoulder. “Why, then we run.”

  By the fall of that turn, Yezzul pronounced us ready. Within a tenday, final preparations were complete.

  I was placed in a barrel bound for the Ducal Palace of White Boar as the Three Sisters rose in the night sky, silver and red slivers of their full selves.

  ✧ ✧ ✧

  A carter Yezzul had groomed for nearly a year took charge of me, rolling my barrel to his cart and up a wood plank to rest among the legitimate ones. He knew nothing, this carter, save where he was to leave me and what he would be paid for it.

  The ride to the ancient palace was long and jarring, so I will not bore you further with details. Eventually, the cart stopped, closely followed by a muffled conversation that filtered through wood and lead as little more than a susurration at the edge of perception. I heard someone thump a barrel. I was not concerned. We’d expected the guards to make such checks.

  A bit of shifting, and the cart jerked into motion again.

  I confess to heaving a great sigh as we passed out from under the gates without incident. The lead sheathing surrounding me was not merely dead weight, it was intended to prevent the wards placed on the gates detecting Pathless monsters such as me trying to enter the palace.

  Not that there are many Pathless like me. Necromancers have always been fewer in number in relation to the Soul-Mongers. The former require Talent and training in the Art, the latter only a thirst for power and an ear for the mutterings of some would-be god sent forth from the Pathless Dark.

  As we crossed the new flagstones of the palace’s servant court, the cart moved far more smoothly. Within a few moments we stopped again. More muffled talk, a clatter, then the cart shifted under me as the first of the barrels was rolled off. This wait was more nerve-wracking than the previous ones, as any accident that cracked my barrel would make for the type of interrogation that rarely ended well for anyone. The wait ended in another roll, this one far longer and faster than the previous one. Were I still subject to living frailties like dizziness, I would surely have lost whatever I’d last eaten.