A Fray of Furies, page 38
part #2 of The Waking Worlds Series
He glared, “You’re a dune-damned necromance–!”
“Shut up and staunch that wound,” she overrode. “Unless,” she added, when he failed to move, “you’d prefer he die in truth?”
Alive? He took another look. What kind of corpse struggled for breath? And who worried about a dead man’s wounds?
“Now!” the priestess commanded.
He scrambled to do as bid.
“What–?”
“Quiet,” she reprimanded.
He watched her unscrew the beak from the little metal monstrosity she held, then splash it with alcohol.
“I think he’s been stabbed enough,” he argued, as she took aim.
“Air is building inside his chest,” she spoke distractedly.
“It’s supposed to,” he maintained. “S’called breathing.”
“He’s suffocating,” she disputed, and drove the spigot down. Blood spurted as though she’d tapped a keg. Air gurgled next. The monk’s haggard breathing smoothed. His eyes fluttered.
“Jiminy…?”
He left off staring at the stabby priestess.
“I’m here, you tough old bastard.”
“Back… safe?”
“No thanks to you,” he smiled, relieved despite himself.
“You… get… it?”
“He got it,” Yoriana confirmed, eyeing the love-lock, wound around his wrist. He didn’t like the way she met his eyes.
“I did,” he agreed.
“That’s Temple property,” she told him levelly.
His temper flared, “The way I see it, it hasn’t been paid for yet. What with you sinking my fee and all.”
Contempt tightened her mouth.
A bloodied hand reached for him, but it was to Yoriana the grey-skinned monk spoke, “Pay… him…” the man coughed. “Pay…”
“I somehow doubt there’s another box of jewels in your bag.”
“Of course not,” she met his scowl with a sneer. “I put it in the one place I knew you’d never get your pagan paws on.”
She reached beneath the folds of her robes.
He snatched the narrow cylinder she offered. It was a scroll quiver, the oiled leather worn in places and darkened by sweat.
“Those writs,” she explained, “are recognized by every Counting House in the Empire. You’re a rich man again – twice over. With a bonus, in light of any hazards you may have faced.”
“‘May have faced,’” he mused, nodding sagely.
He glanced at the wreckage of her alchemy case.
“I’m dying, in the middle of the desert, and you give me parchment?” He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this angry. “Tell me, how much paper to buy some damned elixir?”
Spirits of the sand. He’d strangled only one person in his life and had regretted it after. He felt himself working up to a second…
Even half-dead, Neever wasn’t oblivious to the danger.
“No!” the monk clawed at his arm. “Not… dying…”
Intense eyes willed his understanding.
“Tell!” the man spurred the priestess. “Tell… him…”
“Tell me what?”
Something in Yoriana’s face recalled the mehz’s words to him:
“…you are misled…”
He thought she’d meant the nature of her bargains. What if she’d meant the nature of his elixir? He was willing to wring Yoriana’s neck over it. Yet, the mehz would not take it in trade?
“The governor’s mansion…” he recalled in sudden understanding. Nodding relief, Neever slumped.
They’d sent him to rob the place. And they’d given him a parcel of poison – to swallow in case he was caught. A test of his nerve.
The poison had been fake.
He dug the phial from his neck, where the mehz had hung it.
“What is this?” he demanded, brandishing it at the priestess.
He could see her consider – and discard – an ill-crafted lie.
“It’s basically banal,” she sighed in defeat.
He stared, recognizing the Imperial name for hisang ar banak. The diluted stuff they sold in Tellar was dung, compared to the drug’s true potency. The song of the sandcat let you rut like a god for half a night. Then knocked you on your ass for a day or more.
He looked at her earnest face.
“Cat scat,” he decided.
She fought as he flowed over her. A quick twist and he had her head pinned beneath his knee, one arm torqued behind her back. Her breath raised little puffs of dust in the dirt.
Neever keened a denial, flopping helplessly.
“Banal?” he scoffed. “D’you think me simple? I’ve been going weeks between doses. Months, even!” He bent her fingers the wrong way. “One more lie, priestess. I dare you.”
“It’s true!” she gasped. “Greatly refined! Densely distilled! Magically modified for immensely slow release! It’s banal!”
She slumped as he stood away.
He could see it. They’d told him he was dying and addicted him to drugs. Every time he’d faced withdrawal, they’d fed him more.
“I was never sick,” he reflected. “My magical malady was all your doing. I willingly swallowed your leash.”
The preacher shook his head, in too much pain to raise a pointless defense. Good. He could not promise, if the monk had been hale and able to heft his staff, that he’d have left the man in such good condition as this.
“I’m done with you,” the told the felled pair. “You and your entire, twisted temple. Don’t look for me. Don’t think of me. Definitely don’t pray for me.”
He tore the love-lock from his wrist and let it fall.
“If I see either of you again,” he promised flatly, “I’ll kill you.”
Then he turned on his heel and left them in his dust.
* * *
He reeled, only distantly aware of his plodding feet.
This was not the temporal dissonance he was used to. This was something keener. Something colder.
If you bring more spears… and dogs…
He’d thought he’d grown thick-skinned, beneath the strop of Kassika’s tongue. He’d not have guessed she had the words to hurt him. As it turned out, her honesty cut much deeper than her anger.
He’d thought them friends. She’d fashioned a halter from his foolish trust. She’d led him to slaughter, looking proud. Proud!
It’s not her fault, argued another part of him.
The Hillmen were an unenlightened, unconverted nation. Who knew what superstitions they held? Before assimilation, the Neril had been known to winnow twins at birth, believing one to be evil. The Free Islanders had used to worship albinos as demi-gods.
How would the Hillmen, steeped in the lore of ancient monsters, see a simpleton? Or any of a host of similar afflictions? Kassika was simply a product of a flawed belief system. He couldn’t conceivably hold that against her.
Couldn’t he, though?
Superstition hadn’t spurred her to befriend him. Barbaric beliefs hadn’t made her bear false witness! She couldn’t have actually seen him descend into some denizen-like form, could she?
Could she?
Of course not! Sure, he had a sharp sense of smell and resilience to the cold. But those were just a happy confluence of racial traits. No one begrudged the Jade Island pearl divers their long breaths or webbed toes. Or the singular Inith their colossal size and strength.
If you bring more spears… and dogs…
He shook off the memory. It didn’t matter. Whatever Kassika’s motivations, she’d brought him home, where he might get help. It didn’t negate her betrayal, but he should still count his blessings.
Sudden motion jarred him from his reverie. He found himself in a darkened carriage. It rocked on its suspension as the now-familiar priest climbed in, “Let’s go!”
A whip cracked. Cobblestones clattered beneath them. The drawn drapes did little to muffle the sounds of the city.
“What’s going to happen to my… traveling companion?”
He’d almost said ‘friend’.
“Oh,” the priest waved dismissively. “Usually, she’d be given some form of corporal punishment, for assault on a Watch officer. I dispensed with that, in light of her service to the Temple. Bringing you back,” the man clarified. He’d had sardines and dark bread for his midday meal. They lingered on his breath.
“I gave her a generous comeuppance and sent her on her way.”
“She’s gone?” He hadn’t expected that to hurt.
“Never to be seen again,” the priest confirmed.
Perhaps it was for the best. He had himself to take care of.
“You’re worried for her,” the man guessed.
“I’m worried more watchmen may yet be assaulted.”
The priest shook his head, not fooled.
“You’re loyal to a fault. I can see why he chose you.”
“‘He’?”
“I misspoke,” the priest lied. “I can see why Helia chose you. For the clergy.”
He nodded doubtfully. He spent some time studying the man’s face, trying to find some familiarity in his features.
“Apologies, father,” he said, surprised at how easily the title came to him. “My memory is... spotty. Do I know you?”
The man’s demeanor conveyed sympathy. He smelled excited.
“Don’t strain yourself. We’ll have time to get acquainted.”
A deep tolling interrupted them. Old Greencall, sounding the day’s end. The sound was dwindling, behind them.
“We’re not going to the Temple?” he queried.
“Our expert isn’t there at the moment,” the priest explained, as the carriage pulled up. “He’s here.”
He stepped down onto a gravel drive. The manse had been grand once and plastered white. Time and neglect had yellowed the artful facade and blackened the joins with plaque.
“This is a sanitarium,” he breathed, taken aback.
“Indeed,” the priest confirmed, breathing deeply, as if immune to the stink. “Some of our best work is done here.”
The man seemed energized, bouncing on the balls of his feet.
“Come along, Marco. I’m sure you have a million questions. I have a million more. Here is where we’ll find answers.”
Feeling some trepidation, he followed in the priest’s footsteps.
The inside was close with stale urine and rancid with fear sweat.
The unmanned welcome desk felt abandoned. A nun ghosted from a side corridor, burdened with an armful of linens. She acknowledged them with the barest glance but didn’t slow.
“She’s a penitent?” he asked when she’d disappeared.
“Most of the sisters serving here are. It takes a special compassion to aid the infirm. Or a special lack of it…”
He didn’t think he’d been meant to hear that last part.
“Down here,” the priest led them deeper, into the unventilated bowels of the sanitarium. The stink worsened dramatically.
A pool of lantern light held a large nun at a spindly table. She jangled as she rose, fishing a great ring of keys from her belt.
“Why the barred gate?” he asked as it yawned open.
The priest propelled him forward by his shoulder.
“My colleague works mostly with the violently disturbed. I’d have spared you the sight but, alas, all his equipment is here. It did not seem moot to have him move his laboratory, just for us.”
He nodded dutifully, fighting the urge to shrug the priest off. Massive, rusty iron doors lined the passage. His sharp ears could pick sounds from behind them. A continuous murmuring here. A rhythmic scraping there. He flinched as the one beside him jumped in its frame. Manic laughter echoed from elsewhere.
“Not to worry,” the priest steadied him. “These doors could withstand a siege.” So saying, the man reached past him to knock on the final one. It boomed hollowly and squealed as it opened.
“Ah,” a cheery voice said, “you’re here. Your messenger did not allow for much preparation. I’m not used to being rushed.”
“You’ll manage, Ignatius,” the priest was unrepentant.
“Thank you,” he offered up. “For agreeing to help me.”
The expert, Ignatius, seemed surprised at finding himself so addressed, treating him to a fleeting regard.
“Well, I suppose you’d better come in,” the man invited.
It was a generously proportioned room. The floor sloped gently toward a crusted grate. A half-familiar scent wafted from it. Bracing, like the first lungful of a frigid morning, but alchemical.
The sight of Ignatius’ black sash distracted him. He’d expected healer’s green, “You’re of the Inquisitori?”
“Who better?” the expert affirmed. “Now hop up on the chair and let’s have a look at you...”
‘The chair’ was a monstrosity of timber, hammered over with sheet metal and bolted to the floor. Meant to recline, it lolled with leather tongues, pierced through with gleaming buckles.
A hand settled on his back.
“Please, excuse the furnishings,” the priest bid. “Intimidating as they may seem, they are a necessary element of Ignatius’ work.”
The expert chuckled, “Got dinged a couple of times before I perfected the restraint system. Look,” he invited, parting the neck of his robes, “one snappy customer even got a bite in, a couple of years back.” He dusted the seat conscientiously, “Up you get.”
With great reluctance, he climbed into the offered cradle. Cold metal scalded his skin. Uninvited, Ignatius’ scarred fingers started probing his scalp, hunting malformations.
“Describe your symptoms for me, yes?” the man bid, blind to his discomfort.
“Um,” he stammered. “Memory loss? Black outs? Lost time?”
“Mm. Has anyone observed you during these black-outs? Do you vegetate? Or do you perform complex tasks?”
“Both,” he admitted. “I’m told I sometimes simply stare into space. But I’ve also walked for leagues whilst unaware.”
“Any violent tendencies whilst in these states?”
“There is, ah, some question as to that,” he equivocated. Kassika’s claims were ridiculous. But the memory of that night on the barge – of blood on his tongue – was his own.
“Yes,” he admitted, eyes trained on the floor grate.
“I see,” the expert stood back. “I’d like to try inducing such an episode. Observing the altered state might be beneficial. Would you consent to being restrained? For your safety and mine?”
“I, um...”
“Normally, I’d take my chances,” the expert apologized. “But my most recent serum – undeniably my most efficacious – tends to induce muscle spasms. If you accidentally harm yourself or – Helia forfend – my assistants, I couldn’t show my face in public again.”
Feeling uncomfortable, he relented, “Alright.”
“Marvelous!”
Ignatius coaxed the straps as one might a crate of kittens, “In, you rascal, in! That’s it, that’s– Oh, dear me, no...”
Sighing, the other priest stepped forward to lend a hand.
Finally, they were done, “How’s that?”
“A little tight,” he gritted through clenched teeth.
“Excellent!” The expert stepped away. “What would you like to know? Predilections? Relations? Affiliations? Crimes?”
It took a moment to realize the question was not directed at him.
His savior-priest’s expression had altered, erasing all suggestion of affability. The man’s eyes burned with some strong emotion.
“All of those,” the man answered, voice flat. “With particular attention to any and all heretical dealings, and pagan arts, perpetrated by his old mentor. Details, Ignatius. Get me details.”
His tongue was cleaving to the roof of his mouth.
“Will do!” the expert nodded, slipping on a heavy leather apron.
“And have a care,” the priest cautioned. “Broken he may be. But this one was trained in Clatter Court. And that’s on top of whatever abilities he was granted through the dark arts.”
“Yes, yes, so you’ve said.”
Heart hammering, he looked from one to the other.
“It bears repeating,” the priest growled. “I’m not looking for a cuticle-deep confession, Ignatius. I want results. Do not fail me.”
“Have I ever?” the expert returned. “Leave me to my work. Come back in a day or two when he’s been properly braised.”
With a dark look Ignatius did not see, the priest left the room.
“Now,” the man breathed, donning thick leather gauntlets, “let me introduce you to my assistants!”
A cloth was twitched from a nearby tabletop.
“My own designs, don’t you know?” the man boasted, caressing the collection of torture devices. He brandished a particularly vicious-looking one. Brass wings and a cruel beak held a sloshing bulb of glass at its heart. Like a Rasrini mechanist’s reimagining of a hummingbird. “If ever I’m allowed to publish my innovations,” the man announced, “they’ll revolutionize the mending arts.”
“I don’t understand...” he gasped through his constricted throat.
“That is a very common reaction,” Ignatius assured him. “Here’s another one…”
In no way put off by his struggles, the man buried the hummingbird’s beak in his thigh. Fire flowed up his leg.
Inside the room, with its grated floor, his scream was deafening. Down the hall, in the little pool of lantern light, it was barely heard at all.
“You’re sure, lieutenant…?” the clerk asked, uncertainly.
She reviewed the instruction she’d just given.
Dammit.
“Scratch that,” she amended. “Send out the lock-up wagon and see if Dockside House can spare some greycapes for escort.”
“Aye, sir,” the clerk jotted down this, more conformist, order.
The mistake was unlike her. She was on edge.
She’d had a Nemil grandmother, growing up. She’d heard all the stories you weren’t supposed to repeat. From the moment the Inquisitori had darkened the Watch House door, she’d worried for the tribal girl. A hastily convened hearing boded well for no one. The situation was striking a symphony of sour notes with her.
