CHAPTER EIGHT
Caim’s insides trembled as he stole across the midnight lawn. It was all he could do to keep his hands from shaking. Five members of the Sacred-fucking-Brotherhood lay in a High Town mansion, dead by his hand, and a plethora of questions raced through his head. Most of them concerned the limp, sweet-smelling form slung over his shoulder.
He regretted dashing the girl’s head against the wall, but she had been wriggling so hard he thought she might pitch them both out the window. Anyway, it gave him some much-needed silence to think. He climbed over the gate and dropped into the alley behind the house with a grunt. The girl stirred, but did not waken. He couldn’t help noticing her long legs under the flimsy nightgown and the soft breasts pressed against his shoulder. With a sigh, Caim shifted her weight and started hiking.
As he crept down the dark alley, he considered the carnage he’d left behind. He had run into his share of crooked lawmen in his time, but he had never seen any operate as boldly as the soldiers inside. They had been downright cocky. How had they gotten there so quickly? Had they been tipped off? That was a possibility. Even the men of the Brotherhood weren’t above the graft and corruption that flowed through Othir like a foul air. The old man’s death hadn’t concerned them in the least, but finding the girl still alive had caught them off guard. Why? What was her place in this mystery? He needed answers, and he’d wager tonight’s earnings she knew something.
At least one thing had gone right tonight. He had resisted the urge to call upon his powers, but it hadn’t been easy. He’d wanted that edge, felt it calling him. Just a sliver; that’s all he would need. But the memory of what had happened at the Blue Vine and the monstrous presence that had answered his summons were enough to deter him. Caim shook his head in the dark. What was happening to him?
Kit hovered over him. “How did the tinmen get here so fast?”
“Good question.” He kept his voice low. Sounds carried a long way on these quiet streets. “I wish I knew.”
Kit floated closer to the girl. “Why did you take her? Not having enough fun as a cutthroat, you’ve sunk to kidnapping now?”
The question was bothering Caim as well. Why had he gone back? The job was a bust. He could have left the girl and fled the house, content that his part in the events would remain unknown. But overhearing the soldiers’ conversation, it became apparent that they meant to eliminate her, and something in him couldn’t let that happen. So he had risked everything he had built—his livelihood, his freedom—to save her. What the hell was he thinking? The girl’s bosom expanded and contracted against Caim’s cheek. She smelled faintly of lavender.
“You’d be better off just killing her and dumping the body,” Kit said. “She’ll scream for help as soon as she comes to.”
“Kit, go scout—”
“Maybe you should hit her on the head again, just to make sure.”
“Kit!” He clenched his jaws shut as his voice echoed off the stone façades on either side.
She put her hands on her tiny hips. “I looked already, all right? There’s no one around, which is weird. I mean, High Town is always crawling with the law. But tonight it’s like they all have something better to do. There’s no one out except for a couple youngsters over on Duchess Street.”
“Then check them out. I don’t want to be caught by surprise again tonight.”
“They’re harmless. Just a couple kids out for a ride on their daddies’ ponies. Not like this one.” She swatted at the girl’s drooping head, her hand passing through the wavy locks. “She’s going to be nothing but trouble. Mark my words.”
Caim ground his teeth together until he thought he might shatter a tooth. Nothing about tonight made sense, especially his reaction to this strange girl. He didn’t like snags in his routine. With Kit staring at him, he felt something give.
“I couldn’t leave her there. All right? I can’t explain it. I just felt, I don’t know, like it was wrong. The whole thing stinks. Anyway, she might know something about what happened up there.”
“And I’m sure she’ll be eager to tell you everything, what with you looking all guilty standing over her father’s corpse.”
“He was already dead when I got there.”
She wiped an imaginary tear from her eye. “I’m sure she’ll believe that. So what really happened up there?”
Caim glanced back at the manor falling into the background of the cityscape. The sensation of being watched itched between his shoulder blades. More imagination. No one could track him in the dark. “I don’t know, but I intend to find out. Now go scout a path home, the long way around. I don’t want any tails.”
“So you’re really taking her home with us?” She exhaled a loud huff. “Sometimes, love, you’re dumber than you look.”
Caim batted a hand at her ethereal backside. “Scoot.”
“I hear and obey.”
She darted away on the wind, leaving Caim alone with his thoughts and the girl. He studied her while he walked. She was young, maybe eighteen or nineteen, with a proud aquiline nose. Her mouth had fallen open, which made her appear even more innocent and fragile. Caim shook his head. What was he doing? He didn’t pretend to know. But it was too late for subtlety. He increased his pace to a quick jog and wished he could leave this night behind.
The moon hid behind a curtain of clouds. That, and the lateness of the hour, allowed him to leave High Town unseen. Once across the Processional and back on the streets of Low Town, he felt better. He paused at the corner of Clesia and Julian streets, caught at the intersection of two thoughts. He could still dump the girl somewhere and forget this entire night. There was an abandoned house on Clesia used by drunks to sleep off their rotgut dreams. Certainly, that would make Kit happy. But something gnawed at Caim’s insides. Someone had tried to set him up. The Brotherhood’s arrival had been too well timed. Had they taken him, no magistrate in the city would believe he found the man already dead, nor care. His story would have ended with a speedy trial and a brisk walk to the gallows. It all stank like last week’s garbage.
Caim turned onto Julian Street. An hour later found him at the door to his apartment. Once inside, he laid the girl on the cot in his bedroom. After checking to make sure the window shutter was latched, he went out to the kitchen. He grabbed a half-filled jar of wine from the cupboard and drowned his thirst with a long swallow.
Kit perched on the edge of the table, her pretty legs crossed. Her dress had changed to a fierce shade of indigo. The color accentuated her pale skin and brought out the purple in her eyes.
“You know what I’m going to say,” she said.
He set down the wine jar. “You’ve said it half a dozen times already. Let it go, Kit. It’s too late to change what happened.”
“Then let’s leave town. Tonight. That High Town bitch is only going to bring you more headaches. Steal a horse and ride. We could be in Michaia in a fortnight.”
“There’s a price on my head in Michaia.”
She jumped up and wrapped her arms around his neck. Her touch tickled his chest. “Go east, then, to Arnos. We could see the City of Jewels or hide in some tiny village by the coast, lounge by the ocean in luxury.”
“I’m not leaving. I won’t be chased away.”
“Why not? We could make a fresh start. Othir is a stinking sewer. You could be a powerful man somewhere else, with servants and a big house.”
“That old man had a big house and servants. What did it gain him? He’s dead this morning, just the same as any drunk knifed in the Gutters.”
“Exactly. Life is short, so enjoy it while you can.”
Caim walked over to a wooden shelf beside the coldbox and took down a small stone vial sealed in brown wax. He peeled it open and measured a spoonful of mealy yellow powder into an earthenware cup, then poured some wine into the cup and swirled it around.
“I’m just saying you could do better,” Kit said as she followed him to the bedroom.
The girl was still sleeping soundly, but buffets to the head were difficult to judge. She could awake any minute, or not for hours. He dribbled the cup’s contents into her mouth and got most of it to go down. He stood over her for a minute, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest. Her full lips glistened from the wine. He untied her bonds and arranged her limbs more comfortably.
He left the room, closing the bedroom door behind him as he went back out to the kitchen.
Kit trailed behind him. “Caim, your mother wouldn’t—”
He held up the cup, one finger pointed at her nose. “Don’t, Kit. Just let it go.”
“You know she wouldn’t want to see you like this.”
“Give it a rest! This is my life. Either help me or leave me be.”
She puffed out her cheeks and bit her bottom lip, but she didn’t go. “Fine. What do you want me to do?”
He grabbed his cloak. “Watch over the girl. She should sleep till daybreak, but just in case. She might be important.”
“I’m not a nursemaid! Where are you going?”
He opened the door and peered down the hallway. “To get some answers.”
“What if she wakes up?”
“You’ll think of something.”
He closed the door and padded down the hall, leaving two of his problems behind. It was past midnight and he had a host of questions with no answers. But he had an idea where to start looking.
* * *
The Luccian Palace perched atop Celestial Hill like a harpy poised to swoop down on the city. Built during the old empire, and added to extensively in the decades since, the palace was as much a symbol of Othir’s prominence as the True Church itself. Though the prelate abided at Castle DiVecci, most of the Church’s administrative and bureaucratic activities were performed here.
The wing where Ral was met by a young manservant was decorated in an antique style oozing with old money and power. Gold leaf dripped from every conceivable surface. Huge silk tapestries covered the high walls. The atrium’s ceiling was painted with scenes from scripture displaying the majesty of the Church Fathers. There was hardly any evidence of their fabled mercy. One painting showed the current prelate, Benevolence II, with a golden orb in one hand and a bloody sword in the other, an impressive pile of dead sinners at his feet.
Ral reached down to clutch the hilt of his sword while he paced across the black marble tiles, but his hand came away empty; the guards had confiscated his weapons, the ones they could find. He hadn’t volunteered the few they missed.
Waning rays of moonlight streamed through the tall windows lining the hallway. Oil-soaked flambeaux crackled in wrought-iron cressets on the walls. Two bodyguards in white surcoats over black mail stood at attention, poleaxes held rigid in their hands, on either side of an oaken door.
Ral wanted to laugh. They believe their guards and these stone walls make them invincible. But violence could reach anyone, at any time. That was a lesson he had taught to more than one aristocrat.
He ignored the costly objects d’art surrounding him, the jeweled diadems in their crystal display cases, even the rack of ancient weapons that might have interested him another time. He was not looking forward to this meeting. He had considered not coming at all. He was tired from his journey, which, although it had been successful, had taxed him more harshly than he anticipated. He would have much preferred a hot bath and a fine meal followed promptly by several hours of undisturbed sleep, but he wasn’t likely to see any of that anytime soon.
The summons had been waiting for him at home when he arrived, the archpriest’s soldiers insisting in excruciatingly frank terms that he accompany them at once, regardless of the hour. So instead of procuring that hot bath and sweet slumber, he had ridden through the early morning streets of Othir and answered the call he could not afford to ignore. Not yet.
He knew why he was here. News had reached him on the road: the Esquiline Hill job had been botched. The archpriest must have his own informants close to the scene. Ral didn’t like that. He had told Vassili he would handle it personally and to hell with the fallout, but the archpriest had insisted on doing things his way. Now matters were even more mucked up than before. Of course, Ral would be expected to make everything all right. And he would do it, with a smile if that’s what was required. The rewards made it all worthwhile.
The manservant returned and ushered Ral into the archpriest’s office. Lustrous parquet replaced the marble floor tiles. Comfortable furniture was arranged about the room at precise angles. An immense stone hearth stretched along most of the west wall; a company of silver figurines crowded the mantelpiece in strict formation. As he entered the chamber, Ral got the fleeting impression someone had just left. Yet the parlor’s frosted-glass windows were closed tight against the night air and there was nowhere else for a person to hide. A faint odor hung in the air. It reminded Ral of a spice, pepper perhaps, or cloves gone stale.
Archpriest Vassili sat behind a heavy chalcedony desk. Draped in a wine-colored robe trimmed with mink, he was at least sixty, and in the stark candlelight he looked every year of it. A silk tonsure, the color of blood from a lung wound, capped his close-cropped white hair; matching rubies sparkled on stick-thin fingers. Around the loose folds of his neck, inscribed with sacerdotal icons, hung a bulky golden medallion on a thick chain of the same noble metal.
Vassili was reading from a scroll when Ral entered. His desk was littered with long sheets of parchment. A platter of piscis galantine on a bed of black caviar sat at his elbow, hardly touched. The papers were architectural plans for the new cathedral under construction in the heart of the city. Ral had seen the building often in his comings and goings, and noted its stark white marble walls, the legions of frozen angels and saints frowning down at passersby in stern disapproval.
The archpriest continued reading for an uncomfortably long interval before he acknowledged his visitor. When he did, his glare was cold and penetrating. “How could this happen?”
Ral started toward a cushioned chair, but stopped as his patron raised a snowy eyebrow. He settled for tossing his cloak over the back.
“How could what happen?” A moment later, he added, “Your Radiance. My mission was a complete success. The grand curate of Belastire has suffered an unfortunate mishap, as did his mistress, their three children, and a maidservant. Even better, one of his own underlings was fingered as the culprit. Seems the poor man has a drinking problem, woke up in the victim’s cellar with a nasty hangover and covered in blood. They were preparing to hang him as I departed.”
“Not that, idiot. How could an entire squad of the Sacred Brotherhood, handpicked by you, manage to get themselves killed doing a job you told me would be routine?”
Ral held his tongue as the servant reappeared with a silver tea service. He took a steaming cup out of courtesy, but didn’t taste the contents. What he wanted was a tall draught of good wine.
“I did as you demanded,” he said. “You wanted men who could be trusted to keep their mouths shut. Ambitious men, you said, who could be manipulated with ease. I found the best available. If they failed, it is no fault of mine. I wanted to handle the matter myself, but you commanded otherwise.”
Vassili glowered over the rim of his cup. “Mind your tone.”
Ral bowed his head, as much as it grated. “Apologies, Your Radiance. I only mean to point out that matters would have gone smoother with my hand on the knife.”
“You know well that my plan could not allow for that. The timing of the Belastire job had to take place exactly as it did, far from Othir and with no suspicion thrown in my direction. That you did well, but still it was a mistake to involve the other assassin.”
A spider crawled from under the desk and scurried across the hardwood floor. Ral extended his foot to crush it.
“Caim is lowborn scum who needed to be put in his place.” He examined the sole of his boot. “Anyway, it makes little difference. With Donovus out of the picture, another obstacle on the Elector Council has been eliminated.”
Vassili slammed down his cup, splashing tea on the desk. “Earl Frenig was the crux of this scheme! His daughter escaped from your men and ran off to God-knows-where. And what’s worse, your dupe is free as well. With them loose, all my plans are in jeopardy. Do you know how long I have labored, how many assets have been expended, all to see this day? I will not waste this opportunity.”
Ral tugged at his chin. Was it possible Caim had taken her? But why? What did he think to gain from it? He couldn’t possibly know her value.
“I don’t see the problem.” Ral held up a hand to forestall any protest. “Please, Radiance, hear me out. All Caim knows is that he killed an old nobleman and a few soldiers.”
“He knows more than that. Earl Frenig was dead before your man ever entered the house.”
“Dead? I don’t understand. The plan—”
“I modified the plan. I did not trust your men to time their entrance with precision. A moment too soon and they would be party to murder, leaving more loose ends to clean up. Too late and we’d have what we have now, an unaccounted asset free in the city with knowledge that could destroy everything. Two assets, if the girl saw anything, and she likely did. So I sent another agent.”
Ral chewed on that for a moment. What other machinations had the archpriest devised without consulting him?
“You never told me why we’re making all this effort over an old man, not even an elector at that, and his brat of a daughter.”
“Never mind the reasons. Your job is to carry out your orders to my satisfaction, and I am very unsatisfied tonight.”
“Be that as it may, it hardly makes a difference. Caim is alone now, a fugitive with an entire city searching for him. He cannot go to the authorities. If he’s hindered with a girl, he’ll soon be caught, and then we’ll have them both.”
“You mean the prelate will have them. Don’t you think this thug, this Caim, will spill everything he knows for a chance to save his life?”
“He doesn’t know anything of import. Besides, he’ll never make it to the dungeons. I will make sure of that.”
Vassili shook his head. “I’m not willing to gamble with happenstance. I want them both eliminated immediately. My forces are in place. Before the next new moon, Benevolence will suffer an untimely mishap. The Council will convene to elect a new prelate, and I will offer myself as a candidate for the high office, a motion which will meet with quick approval.”
“And as your faithful servant, I expect my promised reward. Our agreement called for a lordship, lands, and title.”
The archpriest picked up another scroll. “You will receive your due compensation when this matter is completed. Mind the task I have laid before you. I want the girl and this man dead. You may go now.”
Ral grabbed his cloak and left. The manservant preceded him through the doorway. Just as Ral crossed the threshold, Vassili called out, “Don’t fail me again. My patience is almost at its end.”
Ral turned and made a bow. “As you command, Radiance.”
The soles of Ral’s leather boots slapped on the tiles as he stalked through the atrium, past the bodyguards who didn’t look as if they had so much as blinked since he entered. Ignoring the manservant who held open the door, he strode out into the brisk night air. This business was getting out of hand. Once he had thought Vassili would be the herald to all his dreams, but more and more of late he was beginning to doubt the archpriest’s true intentions. If Vassili managed to gain the prelacy, he might decide that his old allies were too dangerous to keep alive. Ral had no intention of being discarded after his work was done. Perhaps it was time to form a contingency plan. One couldn’t be too cautious in matters such as these. A man had to look out for his own interests.
Another thought nagged at Ral as he vanished into the shadowed streets of the city. If it wasn’t Caim, who killed the old man?
* * *
Vassili frowned at the water-stained parchment in his hand.
Your Radiant Grace,
Conditions in the state of Eregoth continue to deteriorate. An influx of Uthenorian mercenaries—brigands in all but name—into the usurper’s armies has foiled our latest efforts to undermine the local viceroy. Rumors of strange happenings in the highlands continue to persist. Most of the peasants have fled or been taken to parts unknown.
We beg Your Radiance to send additional men and monies, as both are in perilously short supply.
Your Servant, with all humility,
Jacob Mourning, Aspirant
With a curse, Vassili tossed the letter on the desk amid a pile of papers, all bearing similar reports from his agents in the north. Some had not bothered to report at all. He was tired of their complaints, the endless wheedling for additional funds and soldiers. He was more concerned with events here at home. Banditry and lawlessness plagued the countryside. Arnos encroached from the east, and the prelate’s “holy war” against the god-kings of Akeshia in the distant east had left Nimea with inadequate forces to guard her own borders.
Vassili broke the elaborate seal on the next missive and unfolded its stiff parchment. This one he found more to his liking.
Brother in Faith,
We most happily accept your gracious gift to the impoverished unfortunates of Parvia. As the Holy Texts profess, surely your heartfelt generosity shall be remembered forever.
Furthermore, we hereby agree to an alliance of purpose on all matters that come before the Council.
Archpriest Gaspar, Viscount of Parvia
After reading the message, Vassili folded it with care and placed it in the hidden compartment under the bottom drawer of his desk. A dozen archpriests presided over the twelve holy districts of Nimea. Together, they formed the Elector Council, a body ordained to advise the prelate and, when necessary, elect his successor. With Donovus gone and Gaspar’s support, he held half of the Council securely in his pocket. Now, if only Ral could be counted upon to perform his task with alacrity, all would be set.
A shiver went through Vassili as the temperature dropped and shadows stirred in the corners of the room. A figure emerged from the darkness. Tall and lean, almost to the point of gauntness, he wore a simple monk’s robe, black as the night, cinched at the waist by a plain length of cord. His pale face hovered in the candlelight. Its stern lines came together to form a powerful jaw, a twisted nose. White scars creased hollow cheeks, old wounds poorly healed. Shadows smudged the sockets of his deep-set eyes. Black pupils like cold, bottomless pits swallowed the light.
“Levictus.” Vassili made a show of looking over the latest plans for the cathedral’s baptistery. “You overheard?”
The figure moved to the spot where Ral had stood only moments before. His voice, though only a whisper, carried through the chamber.
“Nothing remains hidden from the Dark.”
The archpriest reached up to touch the medallion on his chest and forced himself to look upon the man’s ruined features. Levictus winced as candlelight reflected off the symbols etched on the golden surface, and Vassili allowed himself a satisfied smile. Sometimes a pet, no matter how faithful, needed to be brought to heel.
He jerked his chin toward the doorway through which Ral had departed. “That one grows bolder every day.”
Levictus opened his left hand slightly, and then made a flicking gesture as if to say, The man is insignificant, an insect, but there was something ominous in his gaze.
“In any case,” Vassili continued, “there is a more dire matter at hand. Namely, your failure in Ostergoth. You assured me that your necromancy could protect Reinard. I made guarantees based upon that assurance, guarantees which are now returning to haunt me. The duke’s brother sits on the Council. He will no doubt demand concessions as a result of this debacle, concessions that will cost me dearly. Well? What say you?”
Still, Levictus said nothing.
Vassili exhaled a long breath. He was tempted to reach for his medallion again. The sunburst sigil of the True Faith was perhaps the only thing his servant feared in the entire world, having been tortured and scarred under its standard. Yet he kept his hands on the arms of his chair. He would show restraint.
“For the love of the Light, man. What is it? Speak.”
“Have I not done all that you asked of me?” Levictus stood perfectly still as he spoke, but the scars on his cheeks rippled with every word. “I have spied on your enemies. It was I who discovered the old one’s intentions, and I who silenced him. I have done all that you asked, to the letter of your expectations. Would you agree this is true?”
“Yes, Levictus. And forget not that it was I who saved you from the Inquest’s torture cells.”
Vassili would never forget that day. Twenty years ago, the Church hierarchs saw the filth and immorality lurking throughout the realm and, having secured the emperor’s sanction, launched a pogrom to rid the nation of its heretical pagan roots. The fanes of the old gods were rooted out and destroyed, their priests imprisoned or slain on the spot along with any others who refused to convert to the True Faith. Levictus’s family was among those swept up by deputized officers of the Holy Order of Inquest. Vassili had been merely an ambitious praetor at the time. On a tour inside the Inquest’s dungeons, he’d noticed a particular young man. According to the jailers, his parents and brother had expired under questioning, but this young man refused to repent, though he had been tortured for weeks and was slated for execution on the next day. Vassili sensed something special in this youth, as if their paths had been destined to cross. He used his authority to have the prisoner released and took the waif into his own household. Not long after, his new protégé began to display certain unusual traits. With time and study, Vassili realized the amazing treasure he had unearthed.
“Have I failed in any task you set before me, master?” Levictus stepped toward the desk. “Or given less respect than was due?”
The archpriest folded his hands within his sleeves. “No, Levictus. You have served me faithfully. I do not debate it.”
“Then when, master? When shall I have my revenge?”
There it was. Vassili chided himself for not seeing it sooner. He never expected the man to forget the torments of his past, but sometimes it slipped his mind. When he’d saved Levictus from the stake, he had promised the youth his vengeance against the Holy Inquest for what they had done to his family. Over the years, he had sustained Levictus on tidbits of revenge, the odd Inquestor or misogynous cleric, fools caught sodomizing their acolytes or plundering the Church coffers. But he understood what Levictus truly wanted.
Vassili composed himself. “Soon, Levictus, if you follow my instructions. It is no easy thing we aspire to achieve. Our realm seethes with corruption. Merchants scheme and bribe their way to high position. Harlots peddle their wares on every street corner in Low Town. Debauchery reigns in the houses of God. Civilization itself teeters on a precipice.”
“When, master?”
“Degeneracy is festering in every corner of the realm. Heresy breeds in the streets of our very city. And yet Benevolence does nothing to halt the corruption, but squats in his fortress like a bloated leech and dreams of past glories.”
Levictus stared at him.
“Find the girl! By the Noose, Levictus, find her and we can move on to the final phase. Then, you will receive everything you desire.”
Levictus maintained his gloomy stare a few seconds more, and then dropped his gaze to the floor. “Yes, master.”
“Good. Now go and do not return until you have good news for me.”
He made a show of comparing blueprints as Levictus retreated into the shadowy corner from which he had emerged. Moments later, the chill faded from the room.
Vassili leaned back and released a long sigh. Levictus was becoming increasingly difficult to manage, and the thought of the sorcerer running free, no longer under his control, was enough to send him reaching for the bellpull. He needed a drink—something stronger than tea.
While he waited for his servant to appear, Vassili played with the idea of pitting Ral against Levictus. With luck, they would eliminate each other and rid him of both problems. It was an interesting line of thought, one he filed away for the future. He didn’t dare upset the delicate balance so close to the fruition of his dream. At this moment, the prelate slept soundly within the walls of Castle DiVecci, never suspecting that his doom approached on silent steps. Vassili almost wished he could see the look on the old fool’s face when the end came.
Smiling to himself, he took the scroll from his desk drawer and read its contents again.