Mob Magic, page 7
... and what is a hitman but the modern day equivalent of the family assassin of the good old days of medieval and Renaissance vendettas. This is the spin that Fiona Patton and Robert Greenberger take as the new kid in town is forced to earn his bones, while Mickey Zucker Reichert turns the focus to a fellow who has been practicing his chosen trade for an extremely long time.
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A DYING LIFE
by Fiona Patton
The city of Cerchicava was growing. The black death had passed, the Mage's War was a distant memory, and a renaissance of culture, both magical and financial, had flowered, swelling the population of the ancient city-state to record numbers. Hundreds flocked there seeking a new life of riches and opportunities. Some found it. Most did not.
The two men who leaned against the tavern wall in the upscale church district that night were after bigger prey then some chance-met country immigrant. One was heavyset, bulky muscles straining the cloth of his patched doublet. He carried a truncheon and a hooded lantern. The other was slight, eighteen or nineteen years old with dark, feverish eyes that seemed to look inward at some danger only he could see.
In the distance the great bell of San Demino began to toll. The smaller man squinted up through the shadows.
"He'll be out soon," he noted.
His companion grunted. "You sure, Coll?"
"Bennie's been setting him for a week. He always goes in, has a dram, and comes out in time to walk to San Lucazi's for evening prayers."
"Priest is he?"
"Yeah, Paulo."
"Is he protected?"
"Not magically."
"Wonder who he pissed off."
Coll just shrugged. He was a "cutter," Paulo, a "marker." Neither knew more than that their contact had fingered the "mark" and told them to collect tonight. Neither wanted to know more.
It began to rain, and Coll shivered under his thin jacket. He'd been collecting with a marker for over a year now, a sign that his work had been noticed. He'd been moved up to "set jobs": collections of specific items for specific spells. It kept him out of the cemeteries but not out of the rain.
The tavern door opened, and noise poured into the street, interrupting his thoughts. A large man, red robes prominent in the lantern light, emerged and immediately turned south toward the distant row of churches. Coll took the lantern, and he and Paulo fell into step behind him.
They caught up with him swiftly. The priest had barely enough time to gasp his surprise as the marker slammed into him, driving him toward an alley mouth. Coll was right behind, a thin stiletto appearing in his hand.
Paulo's arm came up, there was a distinctive crack and the priest was down. Coll scuttled forward as he fell, flinging the priest onto his back and pressing his ear against his chest. The priest moaned.
"Paulo!"
The big man raised his arm again. The priest's eyes locked on Coil's face, the sudden knowledge of a death too horrible to conceive of sending a shock through them both. The priest cried out and clutched at the smaller man's clothing, trying to throw him off. Unnerved for just an instant, Coll could only stare back at him, and then the jack came down with a crunch. The priest went limp.
The cutter went to work quickly now, slicing through the robe with an experienced motion. The white flesh underneath was soon exposed, and as Paulo held the lantern, Coll pressed his ear to the priest's chest once again. There was no sound.
A quick, deep cut in the dead man's abdomen exposed the soft organs underneath. Coll reached in with his left hand, lifted the liver, turned it, and sliced an inch long piece cleanly off with an expertise born from years of practice. One motion and the urn inside his pocket was out, opened and the "item" deposited in the liquid within. Another motion and it was corked, soft wax pressed around the mouth. Coll pocketed the urn and, without a word, left Paulo to dispose of the body.
No one would ever know that Zeno de Podeno, pastor of San Lucazi, had been marked to die so that his flesh might be sold to the enemies of his family—no one but the cutter, the marker, and the necromancer who would make use of the item.
Moving quickly through the alleyway, Coll stripped off his bloody jacket, using it to clean his hands. He'd barely flung it to one side before a sudden stab of pain doubled him over. His stomach heaved and, stumbling to his knees, he crouched, choking and retching, in the lee of a dilapidated building.
To many, necromancy was the most heinous crime that could ever be visited upon the dead. To defile a corpse was vile enough and called for brutal penalties in all the city-states; but to use dead flesh against the living was to attack the spirit of them both and was punishable by death. It was a gruesome, highly illegal business but one so lucrative that many were willing to risk the savage penalties to service Cerchicava's growing number of Death Mages.
The priests taught that those who served the Necromantic Spellcraft were as dammed as the mages themselves. Coll believed them. Wiping his hand across his mouth, he waited for the fit to pass, then stood and straightened his clothes. He'd been corpse-cutting since he was a boy, starting by holding the lantern while his master worked. In due time he'd moved up to crude collections from plague victims and hanged criminals, then finally to set jobs. It was all he knew. He was good at it. It had taken him off the streets and made him safe, and if the faces of the dead came back to hover about his bedside, there were plenty of herbs that brought him the insensibility of a drugged night's sleep. He was alive, that was all that mattered.
Pulling himself roughly together, he continued on his way.
Gebhard, Coil's contact, maintained an alehouse on the docks. After a word with the "protector" by the door, the young cutter was ushered into the back room. The man was busy scratching figures in a ledger and did not look up, although the tense set of his shoulders said he knew who approached.
Used to the aversion of others, Coll still glared at him. Hypocrite, he thought bitterly. Setting the urn down on the table, he turned to go. He would be paid later. Whatever Gebhard thought of him, he needed him.
As he reached for the door, the man looked up.
"I've another collection for you," he said without meeting Coil's eyes.
The cutter turned back.
"A set job, very special, very specific."
Coll nodded.
"You're to go to La Palazzo de Sulla immediately. You'll get your instructions there."
Coll went white.
La Palazzo de Sulla was the home of Lord Montifero de Sepori, one of the most powerful noblemen in Cerchicava. It was rumored that he was a Master of Necromancy, but no one, not even the city's due, had ever had the evidence or the courage to accuse him. Those who worked in the cutting trade knew he was their ultimate master but it was never spoken of. Lord Sepori had a long reach. He could pluck your thoughts from the air as easily as he could snuff out your life. If you were loyal and useful, he would insure your safety; if you crossed him, or hesitated, you'd find yourself on the receiving end of a spell too horrible to even contemplate.
Coll had contemplated it, and his blood ran cold as he approached the small side door of the palazzo an hour later.
Rumor had several cutters dead under terrible circumstances of late. One, a small, consumptive youth named Alfons, had been found by a dipper, his ribs staved in and one heart chamber sliced cleanly away. Like the others, Coll had simply assumed he'd tried to betray their powerful master. Now he wasn't so sure. Perhaps he'd only doubted. Perhaps he'd laid awake at night, listening for the faltering heartbeat of the dying, feeling their fear sink into his spirit and shrivel it up. Perhaps he'd hesitated, just once, as Coll had tonight.
His mouth suddenly dry, the young cutter rapped on the door.
Lord Sepori was a husky man in his late forties, his thick, black hair streaked with gray. He was seated by the fire in a book-lined study, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to reveal muscular arms scored with the burn marks of years of spellcraft. Coll could almost feel the power radiating off him. He looked up as a servant bent to whisper of Coil's arrival, and the cutter could see the red shimmer of a magical spell over his eyes.
Sepori gestured. Hesitantly, Coll entered the room, pausing as the man stood.
"Gebhard speaks very highly of your work," he said, his voice a surprisingly warm baritone. "A man who might go far. A man to take notice of."
"Ah, thank you, My Lord."
"Walk with me."
Striving to hide the revulsion he felt, Coll followed the mage through a small door and blinked. Before him stretched a huge, glass conservatory filled with roses. Hooded lanterns hung along the stone sidewall illuminating the structure with a soft, yellow glow, and the air was filled with perfume and the odor of rich, damp earth. Coll could only stare about him in astonishment.
Lord Sepori's red-tinged eyes glittered in cold amusement. "Does this surprise you?"
An immediate denial died on the cutter's lips. "Yes, My Lord."
Showing his teeth, Sepori reached down to caress a peach-colored bud. "Such beauty," he murmured. "Beauty should be preserved, don't you agree?"
"Ah, yes, sir."
"And ugliness destroyed."
"Sir?"
Crushing a small insect between his fingers, the lord straightened. "Gino!"
A man working within the roses at the far end shuffled forward. The magical tattoos on his face glowed hotly, as did the stitching across his mouth and nose. Coll took an involuntary step backward.
Sepori took no notice of him. "These plants are infested," he said in disgust. "Destroy them and inspect the others at once."
The apparition bowed, and Sepori moved on.
"We're on the brink of tumultuous changes, Coll," he said, his tone conversational once again. "Changes which may snatch a man from the richest palazzo or raise him from the vilest gutter. Do you follow?"
"I think so, sir."
"Excellent. I require a very special item tonight, and I need a cutter of extraordinary skill and unshakable loyalty for the collection. One with the brains to rise in my organization as far as ambition may take him. I believe that you are such a man. Am I correct?"
The necromancer was very close to him now. Coll could smell the bitter odor of stale magic and preserving oil on his clothes. His chest grew tight, and he stilled the urge to inch away.
"Yes, My Lord."
"The specifications are most precise. You may not take a marker, but the mark is young and ailing. He will not present a problem. His name is Lorenzo de Marco, the son of our most benevolent Duc Giovanni de Marco."
Lord Sepori's sharp gaze was on his face. Coll grew very still but dared not show any outer emotion. The mage continued.
"You will enter the ducal palazzo in the guise of a physician with the assistance of one in my employ. The boy has many; one more will not be noticed. You will be given ether to anesthetize him, and I require one square inch of liver. That is all."
Coll blinked, a sudden pressure against his temples causing him to flinch. When he opened his mouth to speak, no words emerged.
Anesthetize him.
"Yes," Sepori said calmly. "The mark must be alive."
Sound came finally. "But..." Coll struggled to find the words. "The flesh must be dead."
"We are no longer bound by such constraints. My scholars have discovered a new spellcraft with four times the offensive power of the old. It requires the flesh of the living. I require that you collect it for me."
There was a rushing in Coil's ears. All he could see was the face of the dying priest, screaming his denial of the desecration of his body. He began to shake.
Sepori raised one ironic eyebrow. "You've made many collections in the past. Why do you recoil now?"
Coll had never considered himself a brave man, but staring up into the glittering eyes of the necromancer, he could only shake his head.
"But they were dead," he whispered.
"Can you be so sure? How long does it take for the spirit to leave the body? Even the priests debate this issue to no conclusion." Sepori drew closer, towering over the younger man. "How do you know you've never collected from the living?"
Coll swayed, almost fainting, and Sepori moved away.
"I'll give you a moment to think on it," he said over his shoulder. "I'd hate for you to blurt out the wrong answer. Return to me when you've collected your thoughts."
The door closed.
Coll collapsed against the wall. The enormity of what he'd just learned was too much to take in, and all he could do was shake his head back and forth. As he crouched there, the light grew dim, and he looked up to see the silent gardener slowly extinguish each hanging lamp. The creature came forward.
His back pressed against the wall, Coll shrank from the undead thing. It reached out, and the building plunged into darkness. Coll screamed.
Cold fingers gripped his arms and dragged him to his feet. He heard voices, crying, shrieking, pleading for mercy, for death. Then he saw Alfons.
The dead cutter shuffled toward him, his opaque, yellow eyes finding him despite their blindness, the great wound in his chest open and bleeding a pale green mist. Alfons raised his hand, and Coll saw the glittering blade of a stiletto pointed at him. He tried to jerk away, but the apparition threw one cold arm across his chest and hauled him into the air.
"No!"
"It's much too late for that," Alfons said in a flat, unemotional tone. "You doubt; you betray. Submit. It's all you deserve now."
Coll kicked out and missed. The apparition raised him up until his chest stretched painfully forward. The knife came down.
The blade sliced through cloth and flesh in a single motion, and Coll choked on a scream. The dead cutter was so close that he could see the maggots in his cheeks; and then the blade cut deep, and he almost fainted from the shock of it. Grinning, Alfons held something up in one bloody fist, and suddenly Coll was alone, crouched in the lee of the conservatory doorway.
Sweat beaded his face and soaked his shirt. With trembling hands he scrabbled at his shirt to feel the flesh underneath. There was no wound, no scar. Looking up, he saw the silent gardener throw a rose plant into a cart, then raise one gray hand to snuff out the first lamp.
Coll bolted through the door.
Lord Sepori had returned to his chair, turning the pages of a leather-bound book with an even expression. He glanced up as the young cutter stumbled forward and fell, gasping, to his knees before him.
Sepori set the book aside. "You see," he said almost gently, "it's much too late to turn back now." He reached out to smooth Coll's sweat-tangled hair. "Better to embrace your future than to meet such a fate."
Coll could only kneel there shaking.
"I know you've had doubts and regrets," the mage continued. "That's normal for any man, but ..." He raised one finger. "... don't make the mistake of thinking that giving voice or deed to such feelings, is at all forgivable. Serve me, and I will keep you safe. I will mold you and guide you in a world of power and wealth greater than you have ever dreamed of." His hand gripped Coil's hair and raised his head to meet his eyes. "Fail me and you'll be plunged into far worse horrors than those you've witnessed tonight."
Well beyond terror, Coll stared up into Sepori's face and saw the death the priest had seen in his. "I won't fail you, Master," he answered, his voice a cracked and ragged whisper.
"See that you don't."
Two unfamiliar markers accompanied Coll and Sepori's physician to the walls of the ducal palazzo. Refusing to meet his eyes, the physician guided him to Lorenzo de Marco's bedchamber, then departed quickly. Coll was left alone with the sleeping child, an ether-soaked cloth in one hand, his knife in the other. He took one step forward. He stopped. Tried again, and stopped again, the thought of cutting through the child's flesh making him ill.
"It's much too late to turn back now."
Jerking back, he looked wildly about the room. The glowering coals in the grate cast shadows across the room that he dared not examine. Breathing deeply, he willed himself to calm. The voice had been in his head, a residue of his ordeal in the lord's palazzo. A warning not to fail.
He took another step forward and forced himself to look dispassionately down at the young mark, noting the hollow cheeks and pale, purple bruising under the closed eyelids. Coll had seen enough death in his short life to know it hovered perilously close to this boy.
He'll probably die anyway, the cold voice of survival sneered. What is this child to you that you should risk losing everything for him? He's never had to fight for what he has. He was born to safety, warmth, and comfort. You have clothes on your back and food in your stomach only because you serve. Fail just once ... Fail just once and he would become like that apparition in the conservatory. There was no way out for him; it was indeed too late to turn back now.
Bringing the cloth forward, he touched it to the boy's face.
The child whimpered and Coll paused, tried again, and jumped as a half-burned log tumbled from the grate to send a shower of sparks across the hearth. Renewed, a tongue of fire leaped up, and Coll saw the face of the dying priest rise from the coals.
He stumbled backward, flattening himself against the far wall. The vision followed the motion, then swung its attention up to the young cutter's face. Coll's mouth went dry. The vision stared at him, compelling, and the young cutter suddenly knew what it wanted.
"No," he croaked out. "I can't. I have to go through with this. I have no choice."
The boy moaned in his sleep, and Coll snapped his teeth together. "He won't just kill me," he hissed. "He'll turn me into some rotting, undead ... thing. I can't."
The vision merely stared at him, neither accusing nor absolving, merely waiting.
"I'd never get away with it. He'd know I betrayed him. He'd just send someone else, anyway," he added.
The vision made no answer.
To his surprise, Coll felt a faint sense of hope begin to grow from a place he'd thought long abandoned. So far Sepori had not detected his thoughts and sent some magical attack to crush him for his hesitation. Maybe the palazzo was protected; maybe the boy was. Maybe you are, the voice of survival answered. Coll stared at the motionless vision. Maybe. His eyes suddenly cleared. Maybe he did have a choice, a chance, but he'd have to move fast.
