A Fray of Furies, page 18
part #2 of The Waking Worlds Series
The dead man ducked her strike, sidling strangely on all fours.
The silken cord twisted as though alive, its barbed point biting thigh and fouling its step. The dead man skittered from beneath a snapping noose, fingernails popping as it scrabbled to arrest its wild skid. Stick limbs churned as it shot forward again.
His specter… his specter danced.
Death dictated her every step as she wheeled and whirled, wound and wind-milled. It was a thing of fierce beauty and concentration, snaring him as surely as it did her quarry.
The dead man tumbled as the loops corded to snatch a back foot here, an elbow there, constricting in tighter and tighter coils. Finally it knelt, festooned and fettered in place.
All but dusting her hands, his specter approached.
Jolted from his slack-jawed appraisal, he moved.
Because he’d seen this before.
And it was going to play out differently this time, dammit.
The chain spear had never been her favorite weapon. It afforded admirable range and was plenty deadly. But it wasted a lot of motion and was slow to recover between strikes. Augmented by ghost knots, however, its utility improved significantly.
It was still dastardly difficult to manipulate. And the desolate moans and shrieks going off in her head didn’t help. Ghost knots required ghosts – innocents who’d died by hanging. Their hair was woven into the cord. But she persevered.
With a thought, she wrapped the apparition’s ankles together and it finally faltered. She added a few more loops, just in case.
She took a moment to catch her breath, eyeing her trussed prize.
Animate corpses were exceedingly rare. Professional interest had her hunting for its original death wound. Everything she saw, from missing eyes to the ruptured stomach, could be explained by simple decomposition.
There was a necromancer in Quincaan who could do this: raise a well matured corpse. Supposedly they were immensely strong, as she could now attest. But they were also supposed to be slow and simple. This thing was neither.
“Who made you?” she demanded.
It canted its blind head to her query, rocking in its bonds.
“P…lay…” it wheezed, words mangled by desiccated lips.
She sighed. Initial assessment aside, she doubted she’d just found Keystone’s Butcher. Whatever this thing was, it had been born of that charnel house – it hadn’t engineered it.
Obviously it felt no pain. Unlikely it would volunteer any information. That didn’t mean she couldn’t have some answers. From one of her pouches she dug a coin, gone nearly black with verdigris. An economic movement drew a thumb’s width of dagger and a drop of blood. The coin lapped it up.
“Vanan Okush ram panaah,” she intoned.
The servant of Death commands.
The bronze grew icy between her fingers. A quick flick buried it, with preternatural precision, in the thing’s vacant eye socket. Its head slammed back and it hissed.
“Sigoh!” she commanded. Answer.
It thrashed, attempting to rid itself of the ensorcelled coin. Finally it stilled, turning one weeping socket on her.
“Where is your master?” she pressed.
Grey teeth chattered a denial.
“Answer me! Sigoh!”
Frigid vapor curled away as the coin enforced her command.
“…m…aster…sss…” it wheezed, “come…”
She tightened her grip on its leash as its rocking intensified.
“…all… wwwill… kneel… in… life…”
It gave her a ghastly smile.
“…or serve… in… death!”
She’d been expecting it to lunge at her, not away. It spun, spooling up their connecting tether. She was jerked off her feet toward its waiting jaws…
Dammit! Her mind raced. Obediently, the ghost knots released her but could do nothing for her forward momentum. She’d wager on her vambraces against the vice of mortal jaws. But against undead strength, she was less sanguine. Once it had her, she could not rely on pain to spring her captor’s catch. Her garrote was Rasrini steel. It would saw through jaw (or neck), given time–
A bolt of silver flashed down, bearing those jaws to the ground.
Then she was careening past, absent impact. She managed not to sprawl but that was the best she could say of her landing. Habit had her hurrying to her feet.
There was no need.
The corpse gaped, as surprised as she. Its parchment skin crisped, blackening to ash around silvered steel. The blade’s rag-wrapped owner straightened, figure somehow frayed, hard to focus on in the dark.
“Persistent, aren’t they?” he commented. “The last one followed me across two countries and an ocean.”
Purli accent. Youngish, if she were any judge. Lithe.
She tensed but the dagger merely pointed at the pile of ash.
“Be careful of the claws,” he cautioned, apparently at ease. “These things are venomous. Probably the teeth are worse.”
She started as he lobbed the bright blade over his shoulder. She didn’t hear it strike the cobbles. A single-use item? It had certainly seemed too flashy for the sneak-thief he appeared.
“You’ve faced one of these before?” she ventured.
A nod, “In Tellar.”
“And you were tracking this one?”
“This was just a happy accident.”
For all that he seemed abashed, she didn’t miss how one of his hands had snuck out of sight. Wait, abashed…?
“You were tracking me,” she realized with a shock.
“Only since the embassy.”
Undergods! This one had been on her heels the whole time? Her skin crawled. He could have stuck a blade in her at his leisure. Watching the embassy, he must be a Renali operative. The High Arcanist was more suspicious than her priest had realized. If so, killing him here presented a political risk. Yet, letting him live…
Proving he was dangerous, he shifted to better meet her attack, hands raised peaceably.
“All in good fun!” he forestalled.
“Why didn’t I sense you?” she demanded. “Why didn’t that?” She indicated the ash pile. It had seen through her but missed him.
“Ah,” he drawled. “I had help…”
From his frayed wraps, he fished a pendant. Deft fingers made short work of its knot and a casual flick sent it her way.
She was so off kilter she caught it. Cursing, she braced for whatever magical snare or trap it held to spring…
“That’s hidden me from arcane eyes before,” he announced, backing away. “Best you have it, if you’re hunting these things.”
“Wait,” she commanded, surprising both of them. She knew something of Purli gift-giving customs. She’d be beholden to no one. She kicked the bronze piece free of the ash, sending it skittering toward him.
“It’s bothersome,” she mused pointedly, “being followed. Ask the next dead man his reasons. That will force his answer.”
Bronze masked the eyes of those who’d spent long years darkening death’s door. There was power in such things. Besides, she’d carried that coin a long time and never had occasion to use it.
“Magic,” he grimaced, scooping it up. For all her skill, she could not see how he made it disappear.
“That lighting strike, in the window. That wasn’t magic.”
He sounded very certain.
“No.” She bounced one on her palm. “That was one of these…”
Too late, he realized she meant the little ceramic globe to shatter at his feet. He had just a momentary impression of dark granules scattering. Then the night caught fire. He threw up an arm, staggering beneath the sudden percussion.
Even through the purple splotches marring his vision, he knew she had gone. She’d be even harder to track now. He thrilled at the prospect... His migraine chose that moment to make a bosun’s drum of his skull.
The way he felt, he might be better off walking back to the inn. But his pride took him to the roofs. It was a pained journey and he tumbled in his window to find Neever fraught and fretting. His bed had been stripped to accommodate an alchemy set.
“Where were you?” the monk hissed as he slumped to the floor.
“Shhh…” he begged, his shoulders threatening to shrug free his heavy head. The mask he unwound was soaked with sweat.
“I’m going to throw up,” he realized.
“Here,” said Yoriana, who’d yet to look up from her ministrations. She kicked his ruse bucket toward him, “Drunkard.”
He hugged it to him, without even the energy to glare.
Neever had been studying him sharply. The monk snatched his handful of wraps, sniffing experimentally, “No ale smell.”
“Please,” the priestess sneered. “It smells like the inside of a cask in here. The innkeeper could charge us to replace the room.”
“The sheets are rank,” the monk agreed. “So are the pillows, the mattress and (Helia help us) the floorboards.” The monk turned a gimlet regard on him. “So why does he smell only of fever sweat and,” another surprised sniff, “sulphur?”
At that, the priestess turned. Scalding bile made a bid for the bucket, interrupting his smirk.
“You followed us,” she accused over the noise.
“Me,” he spat, “and the rest of this sand spawned city.”
“We took a coach,” Neever disagreed.
“Mm. Think your goddess parked that in your path, do you? Amateurs,” the bucket echoed. He placed it within easy reach.
Neever stiffened. Yoriana looked plainly disbelieving.
“A rabbit runs for the nearest burrow, priestess. Sorry to say but the jackals put one over on you.” Another thought occurred, “How much did you tip – I mean ‘let slip’ – to the coachman?”
She blanched beautifully.
“Don’t fret,” he laughed. “If they knew enough to watch you, I guarantee they’re already watching the embassy. Did you deliver it safely?” he fished. “Your box of…?”
“Alchemy supplies,” Neever forestalled. Yoriana closed her mouth. “To fit our story, in the event we were searched.”
“Sensible,” he complimented. “And…?”
Neever’s quelling look turned to concern.
“Are you done yet, Yoriana? He looks really bad.”
“Hey!” he argued weakly.
“I am,” the priestess confirmed.
His ring said she used only a lick of power to quicken the potion, near the end of her prayer. She offered him the phial.
“You won’t follow us again,” she grated, holding it just out of reach. Neever looked uncomfortable. He gave it a moment, to see whether the monk would countermand her.
“As you like,” he held out his hand. It remained empty.
“Oh, Helia’s mercy!” the monk huffed, snatching the phial.
He sneered at her over its lip, “Bottoms up!”
The effect was immediate and acute. He swore he could feel the fever sweat trying to back into his pores.
“I could always follow you,” he taunted, “and just not tell you.”
Instantly incensed, Yoriana appealed to Neever, “You see? He is beyond redemption!” She turned on him, “And you! No touching my equipment! You can sleep on the floor!”
Stalking out, she slammed the door behind her.
Sleep? He reflected. Who could sleep?
He could win a footrace at the Summit, carrying Starmane.
“You know she means well,” Neever counselled sadly.
“She means to keep my balls above her little burner,” he growled. “But she is not my most pressing concern.”
“What has happened?” Neever demanded, sharp as ever.
“You remember the dead mage from Seven Deep?”
“The one that nearly killed you? Of course.”
“Turns out, it has a cousin. Well, had a cousin.”
“You confronted it!? Are you mad? I’ll recall Yoriana–”
“I’m not hurt,” he waved the upset monk back down. “This one wasn’t a patch on the last one. Not a mage, for starters. And not as…” What was the priestess’s word? “…erudite. It could hardly string a whole sentence together.”
“Was it after you?” The monk had almost said ‘too’, his eyes rife with unwelcome speculation.
“I caught it out on an errand of its own. Attacking a woman.”
Technically true.
“Ah,” Neever nodded knowingly. “And you intervened… How did you manage to dispatch it?” the monk wondered, frowning.
He’d kept his ring’s aversion to the risen dead (an aversion echoed by the Heli) a secret. As far as anyone knew, the last corpse had fallen afoul of Seven Deep’s own deadly countermeasures.
“What was in the box?” he countered.
Neever’s expression closed.
“You keep your secrets, monk,” he declared, snatching his wraps back, “and I’ll keep mine.”
The open window beckoned.
Her approach this time was devoid of subtlety. Using all her arcane aids, she clambered straight in the priest’s window. He was still up, ensconced in an armchair and engrossed in a book.
“Back already,” he greeted, marking the page with a finger. Seeing her, his smile fled and the book thumped to the carpet. “What happened?” he exclaimed, levering himself up. “Guards?”
“Guards,” she scoffed, hoisting herself onto the lip of his desk.
He took in her bedraggled state, “You found the cult?”
“Not exactly,” she shrugged, wincing at a sore shoulder.
Wincing with her, his hands fluttered for permission, “May I?”
She gave him a quelling look. She didn’t allow casual touch, not to mention magical communion. He might uncover – or do – anything. And he was a client. She’d been taught to expect exactly three things from clients: instruction, payment and betrayal.
“The mask stays on,” she grated, surprising herself.
“Of course.”
He still waited for her nod before laying hands on her. Eyes closed, his head drooped, worry- and laughter lines growing slack. She tried to imagine him as a young man but couldn’t. The ears and nose bestowed by old age suited him too well. This close, he smelled of dry parchment, crisp ink and the buttery tea he favored.
Folding her hands in her lap, she snuck a finger inside her vambrace. The lathered needle wasn’t lethal, only incapacitating.
“You have two fractured ribs,” he announced.
“I feel them.”
“You’re lucky.”
“I feel that less.”
“What I mean is: broken ribs are beyond my abilities. Fractured ribs, on the other hand, just need a little encouragement…”
Red hot ants sped beneath her skin. She hissed through her teeth, concentrating on the priest’s face. Gradually, the heat receded. He straightened, seeming dizzy.
“Your scrapes and bruises should be manageable,” he breathed. “The ribs will be tender for some days yet. Best you wrap them.”
“Good. Take it off my fee, will you?”
“Yes, about your fee,” he steadied, turning stern. “I asked you strictly to observe, not to engage. I can feel the violence on you.”
“Not my choice,” she defended. “Neither did I kill him. He was dead long before I got there.”
That surprised him.
“I think,” he mused, eyeing her, “you’d better tell me everything. Then I’ll see whether I can find some way to share information with the High Arcanist – without implicating myself.”
“He might already know,” she warned, thinking of her Purli thief. At last glance, the Renali covert corps had had no one as skilled.
“Please,” he bid her, retaking his seat, “explain…”
He watched his midnight guest leap from his balcony. Such brazen disregard for death – it made him feel old.
She was remarkable. An adept. Her grasp of the arcana was alarming to say the least. But her power had a flavor that sat askew on his tongue. It smacked of necromancy, and its hybrid cousin, witchery. He shook his head, trying to keep an open mind. All assassins dabbled in death. She, at least, did not seem to revel in it.
Somehow, he doubted that would convince a Temple tribunal to overlook their association or spare his excommunication.
Besides, political suicide was far more likely. If by ‘political’ one meant ‘actual’ and ‘suicide’ was ‘meant to look like’. Last year, Nin had tried to murder a princess of the realm. Twice. The Royal Guard (not to mention the king) tended to take such things askance. That she’d been instrumental in rescuing his masha’na – and him – was neither here nor there. If his link to her became known, his body would be swept under the political rug.
It was a minor miracle the princess had escaped with her life. It was why he went to great pains to keep Nin contracted to him. His skills had failed to ferret out the why behind her royal vendetta. A little gold was a small price, to curb such a force for chaos.
Isolated as he’d become, she was a vital font of information.
“Master thief?” he’d questioned during her recent retelling.
Hearing his skepticism, she’d backed into a dark corner and promptly disappeared. He’d known, after a fashion, what she was capable of. Seeing it was something else entirely. Only his empathic lock on her had saved him a conniption.
“He followed me,” she’d whispered behind him, “across half the city. Like this.” Shadows had peeled away, revealing her once more. “And he snuck up on the thing that saw through me.”
“A master thief, then,” he’d conceded.
As for the necromantic monster…
“You are sure it was undead?”
“No eyes;” she’d counted off, “innards hanging out; smelled like a black pudding left in the sun. And if it had a single joint in place, I’d eat that pudding. So yeah, I’m sure.”
Certainty had boiled off her.
It raised a slew more questions. Ones he was ill equipped to answer. Such necromantic texts as had survived the Burnings were jealously guarded by the Inquisitori. Simply requesting their library index invited an amount of scrutiny no sane man would submit to. But it seemed he had little choice. Not if the Butcher Murders may have loosed another such apparition on his home.
