The Bone Mask Trilogy: (An Epic Fantasy Boxed Set), page 11
Two steps from the woman and Sofia stumbled, ankle faltering.
The carver spun, chisel raised, but lowered it as Sofia pushed herself level with a bench.
“Sofia?”
“Pietta.”
Her friend gaped. She had dark rings beneath her eyes and when she hopped down and hugged Sofia her shoulders shook. “What are you doing here?”
“I need your help, Pietta. I need a mask.” She spoke into Pietta’s hair, then pulled back. “Oson is after me.”
“I know. Everyone’s looking for you, Sofia. They said Lord Danillo tried to kill the King, I can hardly believe it.”
“It’s not true, Pietta.”
Her expression wavered. “They showed us all the Medah man.”
“Please. You’re my friend. My father would never plot against the king. You know that.”
Tears came to her eyes. “I do. I just... what do you need?”
“Food and water. I’ll find a mask.” Sofia paused. “You’re a good friend, Pietta.”
“You too.” She smiled and ran to a rear door, closing it behind her. Sofia checked the nearest mask. It didn’t fit, and the fumes were so strong her eyes watered. Replacing it on a peg, she tried the next, and another, discarding three before finding one small enough. It wasn’t a perfect fit but it was nearly dry. The lacquer was still sticky to touch but at least it didn’t make her want to vomit.
Time passed. Sofia shifted her feet, trying to keep the muscles warm. What was taking so long?
Finally the door opened and Pietta stumbled forward. Two Mascare followed the carver into the room and advanced. They did not speak. Sofia stiffened, catching a glimpse of Pietta’s tearful face as the girl slumped to her knees, and then the crimson Mascare filled her vision.
She fell back, shoving a stool at the nearest. The man dodged. Sofia tipped another and another, backing through the chamber as she did. Each obstacle was deftly avoided.
The entry was too far away. In her injured state she’d never make it, she had to fight and all she’d been taught were the most basic attacks. What chance did she have against two trained Mascare? Leaving a bench between the two as best she could, Sofia found herself herded toward a corner. Keeping both at bay was impossible, same as attacking one without the other taking advantage.
Sofia heaved the bench at them and broke into a uneven run. One was tangled but the other Mascare swooped after her. Before she’d covered half the distance a hand caught her shoulder, spinning her around.
The Mascare grunted as he tore the mask from her face. “There. Now don’t move, understand? We won’t hurt you if you cooperate.”
She kicked his shin. He cursed but did not let go – instead he crashed to the ground as a stool smashed the mask from his face.
Pietta, eyes wide, stood staring at the motionless Mascare, the stool in her hands. “Go,” she shouted when she looked up.
The second Mascare lunged for Pietta, knives out. She fell back, deflecting blows with her stool even as she was driven into a corner. Back against the wall, Pietta flailed at him with the seat. The Mascare kicked the stool from her hands and slashed down at her. The blades left deep slices in her forearms and she screamed.
Sofia tore a chisel free and leapt after him, driving the blade into his back with a shout. He dropped to his knees. Sofia stumbled back, mouth hanging open as the Mascare crumbled to the stone floor, breath rasping.
“Go, Sofia, go.” Pietta pushed her with bloody hands and Sofia’s ankle wobbled.
Her stomach lurched and her hand shook. The man was dead. Dead. “I’ve killed him.”
“They’ll kill you if you stay.”
The first Mascare groaned.
Pietta pushed Sofia toward the door. “Pietta, what will you do?”
Her friend rubbed her arms, smearing blood over her robe, turning in a half circle. “I don’t know.”
“Then tell them the truth.”
She turned back. “What?”
“That I killed him. They can’t blame you.”
“I’ll try.”
Sofia held Pietta’s eyes a moment then ran. She stumbled at the door, pulling herself into the hall where she sucked in a breath and clenched her muscles. Why couldn’t she stop trembling? She’d killed a man. Driven her chisel into his back.
She retched.
Ahead, a small group of Shields skidded into view, swords drawn. Sofia forced herself down another corridor, biting her lip as she tried to sprint. The effects of Mayla’s medicine had not worn off but the air tore at her lungs and her limbs were too heavy. Doors blinked by and a sleepy looking serving boy threw himself against a wall when she passed.
Tearing into a new corridor, she hit a wall of steel, sprawling on the floor.
Captain Emilio towered over her, jaw set.
She scrambled back. “Emilio?” He helped her up, but she shook his arm off. “No.”
“Please, my lady. Let me help.”
“Like you helped my father?”
His eyes glistened. “Oson would have killed me had I tried.”
It was the truth, but she shook her head. “We needed you.”
“You have me now.” Footsteps echoed. “Quickly.” Emilio dragged her down the corridor, boots thumping. She kept pace, gritting her teeth at the pounding. When Emilio finally tore open a door and pulled her inside, she cursed in the darkness as her foot caught the door frame.
“Hush.” Somehow, his deep voice matched the dark.
Sofia steadied her breathing. Her ankle throbbed, small mercy that it wasn’t being pummelled anymore. Emilio’s grip was firm. Would they find her? She had one of her small chisels belted over her Carver’s robe, hidden beneath the Mascare red. Little comfort, even with Emilio at her side.
Ocean Gods, what was happening?
The clamour of the Shields passed and Sofia waited until their footsteps and shouts disappeared. Emilio exhaled, long and slow. Sweat and steel mingled with leather in the room.
“What now?”
He let her go. “Now I take you to safety. Will you follow me?”
“Yes.”
A tiny light bloomed. He held a snake’s lantern, twin, narrow points of light hitting the floor. Furniture loomed but she kept close to Emilio’s back, his orange tunic appearing a bloody hue in the dark, seeping from beneath his silver breastplate.
Blood was everywhere tonight.
He led her through the doors and rooms and passages without changing the light. The night was heavier here, so near to places and people she assumed were sleeping, than in tunnels she’d limped along alone. Or perhaps it was the light itself, so small.
Sounds of alarm were gone now, but she wasn’t safe yet.
“Where are we going?”
“To the palace walls.”
She stopped. “I need to take back Argeon.”
Emilio did not halt. She hurried after him as he spoke, keeping his voice low. “You cannot. You are injured and alone, the Greatmask stays in Cavallo hands for now.”
“Couldn’t you try to –”
He stopped. “I have learnt the bitterest of truths, though I should have seen it sooner. Prince Oson thinks me a stumbling block between him and his ailing father, and the throne. I can do nothing. But I can save you, Sofia.” The captain resumed walking. “Come, I have someone waiting.”
“I feel like I’m abandoning Argeon.” And Pietta.
Emilio’s voice was calm. “You must if you are to live, if you wish to help your father. I know that none but Casa Falco can work with Argeon. I will get you out of the palace, the rest is up to you.”
It was more than she’d expected. Emilio risked everything by helping, and without him she’d be dead or enslaved. He could get her out of the palace, more than she’d manage alone and injured. And she was alone. Mascare and Shields roamed the halls and her father was miles away, heading for the Bloodwood. If he was alive. Hundreds of years of Falco history and she was too weak to reclaim it.
If she could escape and find help, real help, she had a chance.
“Who’s waiting?”
“The Water Rat.”
Sofia strode after him, the pain in her foot forgotten. Water Rat? How could someone with such a name be expected to help her?
Chapter 13
The beggar was a large man. He overflowed the stool he’d been tied to, a blindfold cutting into his head. He appeared as Notch recalled. A sullen expression. Dark hair, matted with blood and spotted across his stretched tunic. The single torch burning in the glistening basement cast more shadow than light. Supplies and crates of Fire-lemon hulked.
Seto gestured to the man, who’d raised his slumped head at their entrance. “Is that he? He was begging not far from the Iron Pig.”
Notch nodded.
“Very well. What is your name, beggar?” Seto asked.
“Vinezi.” His voice was tired. “Where am I, then? What do you want?”
“We wish to know why you’re impersonating a beggar?”
Vinezi shook his head. His wide mouth was turned in a frown. It gave him a frog-like appearance. “I am a beggar.”
Seto signalled with a twitch of his finger. Notch drove his fist into the man’s stomach, twice in quick succession. Vinezi wheezed and coughed.
“Thank you, Vinezi,” Seto said when the beggar stopped. “I do so like to hear a man lie. Would you like to change your answer?”
“Gods take you,” he snarled.
Notch delivered more blows, varying his target but steering clear of the man’s head. For now. That was the way Seto preferred to start. That didn’t make it easier and he swallowed a grimace, but it needed to be done. Notch had started to sweat when Seto raised a hand. He stopped. Vinezi was breathing hard and had cried out several times. It must have been worse, not being able to brace for the blows.
“Once more. Who paid you to pretend? What are you watching? Did you kill Lady Cera’s servant? Take a moment to think.”
“You got bones for brains?” he rasped. “I’m a beggar, that’s all. Never heard of her.”
“My dear?”
Flir stepped into the light. “Yes?”
“Fetch my needles will you?”
“Certainly.” She left.
Notch pointed to Vinezi’s shoes. “Look at his boots. They’re only muddy, not old.”
“My eyes aren’t as good as yours in this light, but that he has shoes at all is a surprise.”
“Stole ‘em.”
Seto raised an eyebrow. “Of course you did.” He turned to Notch. “No matter. If he doesn’t talk, we can simply kill him and dump the body – we might need help with the actual dumping – and then we’ll pick up one of his friends.”
“Good.”
Vinezi shook his head. “I ain’t afraid.”
“That comes later.” Seto’s voice was very casual. Notch rolled his eyes. His friend was putting it on a bit heavy.
The beggar’s chest strained against rope as he breathed, unable to make other movements. When Flir returned, the man was sweating, though the room was by no means warm.
“Ah, my needles.”
“Needles?” Vinezi sneered. “You think needles will make me talk?” His bravado was telling. Vinezi was no beggar.
“That or kill you, as I plan to gradually drive them into your skull. Through your ear.”
At Seto’s words Vinezi flinched, wrenching his torso around and twisting his head away. Flir moved over to take his head, her grip light. Vinezi’s muscles strained, bulging in his neck, but he couldn’t move.
“Be sure to hold him still, dear.”
“He’s not going anywhere.”
Seto chuckled. “True enough.” From a small case, he withdrew a needle that spanned his open hand. Trailing it along Vinezi’s shoulder then up along his neck, he rested it on the man’s lobe. Notch was familiar with the routine. Few men had resisted the needle over the years. For most, it ended as Seto placed the point just inside the ear.
“Are you certain you have nothing to say?”
Vinezi’s chest pumped in short, shallow breaths and he gave a shout. “Stop, stop. I’ll talk.”
Notch breathed his own quiet sigh of relief. Listening to a man screech until he died, in spasms on the end of a needle, was not a sound he wanted to recall.
“Begin.” Seto removed the needle and nodded to Flir, who released the beggar’s head.
Vinezi slumped against his bindings. “I’m paid to watch for people, people my masters might want to use. They need me to appear as a beggar so I’m not noticed.”
“Hmmm. And what do they want to use people for?”
“They never tell me, but I get a different description each day. Sometimes it’s a woman, sometimes a man. Young or old, it always changes.”
“And who are your masters?”
Vinezi hesitated, squeaking when the needle grazed his cheek. “I don’t know. Their accents are strange. I overheard them talking about the palace, when they noticed me they stopped. Started talking in their own language.”
Notch glanced at Seto. “How many are there?”
“Six, maybe seven. I’ve seen them at the Iron Pig. Only one of them talks to me. He’s the shortest, maybe their leader. ‘Thalik’ the others call him.”
Footsteps interrupted and a man in dark clothing appeared. Tulio, Seto’s second in command, gave no greeting, only leaning to his master’s ear, whispering a moment and slipping out. Seto pursed his lips a moment. Notch waited, exchanging a glance with Flir, who rolled her eyes. Seto rarely shared such messages. To hear Flir tell it, the reason was simple – the old man loved his secrets.
“I must go for a time. Find out whatever else you can,” Seto said as he swept by. “I will leave my needles. Finish up as you see fit.”
Notch shook his head at Seto’s exit. Loved his theatrics too.
“Think he knows any more, or should I just snap his neck now?” Flir said, flexing her fingers around Vinezi’s face. Notch suppressed a groan. Not Flir too.
“Let’s hear the rest, beggar.”
“That’s all. They don’t tell me anything.”
Flir turned the man’s head from side to side, gently. “Find something.”
“Well, there is one other thing.” His face was pale. “I saw them speaking with the Mascare once. Inside the Pig. Wasn’t for long and I didn’t hear what they were saying.”
Flir stopped and Notch pressed the man. “You heard nothing?”
“Nothing. One of them rushed me out of the room.”
He frowned. Were the Mascare investigating or involved with the Renovar? Something much larger than the murder of a single, or even four, unfortunate girls was happening in the Lower Tier and he was in the thick of it now. And it didn’t sound cheerful.
Time to gamble. He pulled the blindfold down, ignoring Flir’s objection. “Have you ever seen me?”
Vinezi squinted a moment. “You’re wanted for that murder. On the poster.”
“Yes I am. What do you know about it?”
“Think I saw you that night but I wasn’t paid to look for a man then, so I wasn’t watching for you.”
“What was I doing? Where did you see me?”
“Stumbling around by the harbour, near the big ships. You looked pretty happy.”
“Was anyone with me?”
“No.”
Notch replaced the blindfold and waved to Flir.
She joined him at the entrance to the basement, where he lowered his voice. “I doubt he knows anything else.”
Flir shrugged. “That might be true, but something isn’t right about him. I can’t figure it out. He’s no beggar.”
“I agree.” He glanced at the large man, mute in the torchlight. “And what do you think about his claim that the Mascare are involved in whatever’s going on there?”
“No surprise I suppose. They stick their noses into everyone’s business.”
“So do they know something about what’s going on there?”
“Or are they involved?”
“That doesn’t match their reputation.”
She shrugged. “There’s bad apples in every basket.”
Notch motioned to the prisoner. “Well, what do we do with him then?”
“Dump him in the harbour.”
“Flir.”
“Seto will be mad.”
“I’m not going to murder him, Flir.”
“Fine. Why don’t Luik and I drop him off at the prison? Stuff his pockets full of stolen goods or something.”
“He could lead them back to me, he’s seen my face.”
“That’s not my fault, you did that.”
“I needed to know.”
She shrugged slender shoulders. “Well, everyone’s seen your face, it’s on every other street corner. And Vinezi doesn’t know where he is right now. Nor will he. He can’t lead anyone anywhere.”
“It feels like a risk.”
“The harbour isn’t all that far.”
“Flir, I said no.”
She gave him a playful shove, which drove him back a step. “You’re a soft-hearted man, Notch. Unless it’s on the battlefield of course.”
“Take him then. Make it look good.”
“I know. Where are you off to then?”
“Off to?”
She sighed. “Notch. You’re planning something stupid. I know.”
“I’m going back to the Iron Pig.”
Flir folded her arms.
“It’s no good me simply sitting here doing nothing. I won’t go inside, but I’ll be watching the building.”
Flir held his gaze a moment. “You be careful.”
“Every step.”
***
He chose a different vantage point, this one on street level, in an empty doorway that gave him a clear view of the Iron Pig. It wasn’t enough to lurk across the street behind a dusty window.
Fewer people passed this late in the day, the sun tinting the stones orange and casting purple shadows. Almost beautiful, though the stench of rotting garbage mixing with the harbour marred the effect. If only his hood was a mask as well. Or lined with smelling salts from the desert.
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