Bloodmage Page 9

  “Tomorrow the old scribe will come back. We’ll let it be known that you displeased the Order, so we let you go. You’re never to return here. Ever. And don’t try to hire us in the future, because we won’t take the job.”

  “What am I supposed to do now?”

  “I don’t know, but maybe you should think about a job that doesn’t rely on subtlety or luck,” suggested Ben.

  Munroe started to laugh. At first it was just a giggle, but soon she was laughing so hard tears streamed from her eyes and her stomach ached. She was still laughing as she walked out of the Hangman’s Noose.

  CHAPTER 10

  As the cobwebs of sleep started to fall away, memories of last night began to resurface. Standing up made the room spin for a moment but it quickly faded. Fray splashed cold water on his face and drank deeply, which settled his queasy stomach. What he really needed was something greasy and dripping with fat.

  Throwing on some clothes, he ran a comb through his straggly hair and pulled on his boots. They were wearing thin and come winter would be useless, but it didn’t matter now. Soon he’d have a uniform, a job and enough money to buy new clothes. But he didn’t have the money yet.

  There were a few people about whom he recognised but they didn’t stop or even acknowledge his presence beyond brief eye contact. In this neighbourhood the only people awake at such an hour were either on their way to work, or were at the end of a very long night out. Normally neither group would be looking for trouble, but there was always someone determined to be the exception.

  The baker had already been up for hours and his shop smelled of fresh bread and delicious pistachio cakes made by his wife. Fray ordered two meat-and-egg-filled pasties and managed to eat one before making it back to his room.

  Last night had begun as if they were just old friends meeting up after a long time apart. They had talked about the past and their shared memories from the days when Byrne had been the apprentice and Fray’s father the teacher. After several drinks the walls inside each of them had started to crumble and then came the guilt. Fray felt guilty for not being there when his father had died. Byrne for not being able to do something to prevent it.

  As the night progressed Byrne divulged a few small details, but not as many as Fray had hoped about his father’s last case. It was the one Fray knew very little about as it wasn’t in his private journals. After a few more drinks Byrne let slip that Fray’s father had fought a terrible enemy and won, but the victory had not been without cost. All he would say is that Fray’s father had died in his arms before any help could arrive.

  The more they talked about the past the more it brought old wounds to the surface. Buried deep was an old pain that still had the power to hurt him. Fray knew his father had been disappointed by his choices. Everyone had expected him to follow in his father’s footsteps and become a Guardian of the Peace. But he’d rebelled and decided he wanted something different. The only problem was he’d no idea what to do instead.

  For a time he tried being an actor, even managing to appear in a few plays, but the money wasn’t steady and his commitment wavered in the face of poor reviews. To earn some money he worked on the docks, loading crates and from there continued to move from one job to another to make ends meet. It had taken his father’s death to lift him out of his rut and finally start using his Talent, his magic. But he’d not been ready to take up the job that had finally killed his father.

  Last night Byrne had reassured him that his father had always loved him and been proud, but Fray still had his doubts. After many drinks Byrne had helped him home and promised to come by in the morning for the first day of his new life.

  Still feeling hungry Fray ate the second pasty before it went cold, savouring the hot bread and greasy meat. While he waited for Byrne to return he started to gather together his meagre belongings. As soon as he got a little money he’d move out of the one-room hovel and find somewhere clean and safe. It didn’t take long to collect his possessions, and all of them together amounted to a mere two small piles. The only things of real value lay hidden beneath one of the floorboards, wrapped in old blankets, sealed in greased paper, secured inside wooden boxes. His father’s journals. At night he would often take out one thick volume and read it by candlelight until he fell asleep. Fray contemplated digging one out while he waited, but then he heard the thump of boots on the steps.

  Byrne strode into the room dressed once more in his red and black Guardian uniform, and the walls were back in place. His expression gave little away and he looked ready for the worst, armoured and carrying a sword. The deep worry lines etched in his forehead stood out, a testament to many years of policing the streets of Perizzi.

  “This is for you,” said Byrne, handing over a large bundle and a pair of black boots.

  “I’ve always liked a man in uniform,” said Fray with a grin.

  Byrne’s expression didn’t change. “They’re expecting us to solve this case very soon. It was good to talk last night. Hopefully we’ll do it again soon but—”

  “Right now we have to focus on the job,” said Fray.

  “That’s right.”

  “I know,” said Fray, slipping off his shirt and trousers. “I remember how Dad used to separate the different parts of his life. He didn’t want work intruding at home. He thought he could leave it all at the front door. I think that’s why he kept a journal. Maybe he hoped that by writing it all down, he could forget and move on.”

  “Did it work?” asked Byrne, although Fray suspected he already knew the answer.

  Fray shook his head. “A part of the job always came home with him and I’m sure he sometimes took us with him onto the streets. At some point the edges blurred together. I think it’s inevitable.”

  “Then you’re already ahead of most novices. A year from now, you’ll be a different person.”

  Fray pulled on the black trousers, running a hand down the familiar red line on the outside. The red cotton shirt smelled of lavender and fitted him perfectly across the chest but the sleeves were a little long.

  “He often talked about you and your mother,” admitted Byrne, watching as Fray pulled on the thick black belt. He handed Fray a short sword with a worn grip and leather scabbard. A quick peek at the blade showed him sharp edges. Finally he pulled on the heavy red and black jacket, its weight settling on his shoulders. A thick layer of leather lined the inside, made from the famous Sorenson cows from Seveldrom. From the outside the jacket looked fairly ordinary, but it would stop a blade and sometimes an arrow.

  “You look good,” said Byrne as Fray shrugged his shoulders, trying to get used to the weight. He leaned close and tightened Fray’s belt one notch, helping him settle the blade on his left hip. Finally, after looking him up and down once more, a smile briefly touched Byrne’s face. “Are you ready?”

  “I think so.”

  As soon as they left his building Fray noticed people looked at him differently. The Guardian uniform had always been associated with justice, but now both the Watch and the Guardians had been elevated in the eyes of the people. The Queen only recruited the best, which made people feel safe. Fray saw a lot more smiles from strangers as they walked past.

  When his father had first joined their ranks there had been rumours of corruption and bribery. Criminals paying Guard ians to look the other way. Money changing hands for the release of certain goods or prisoners. Byrne assured him it didn’t happen now, as they’d rooted out the bad seeds and gutted the entire network.

  Byrne led the way towards the docks, but stopped at a junction of several alleyways before they reached the waterfront.

  “The body was—” he started to say but Fray cut him off.

  “Don’t tell me. I need to see it for myself. Can you make sure no one is watching? Using my magic always unnerves people.”

  Byrne moved a short distance away to stand at the junction of streets leading to the docks. Hopefully Byrne would be able to intercept anyone who came this way before they saw F
ray’s eyes.

  The location wasn’t ideal and he was in a hurry, but the more frequently Fray used his Talent, the easier it became. He reached out with his mind towards the sound of the waves at the edge of his senses. To an observer very little would’ve changed, except his posture became more relaxed. But looking closer they would have seen the colour of his eyes shift from green to pale yellow and finally rich amber.

  Stories of demons and monsters from beyond the Veil with glowing eyes had persisted in myth and folklore for centuries. The blindfold meant he could earn a living without angry crowds trying to drive him out of the city or drown him in the river.

  As Fray’s vision shifted, everything in the world became more vibrant and full of life, right down to the rats scurrying through the rotting food. Moving his head slowly from one side of the street to the other Fray’s eyes showed him a rich history of information. Even though he couldn’t see or hear any of the bars down on the docks, he could feel the buildings on that side of the crossroads. They held echoes of music, laughter and layer upon layer of conversation. They were not remnants of people, merely stray words, song lyrics spoken in unison by dozens of voices over and over again until he could hear the chorus from an old song ‘The One-Eyed Witch’. Echoes of more intimate noises drifted towards him from the brothels but Fray quickly moved his attention elsewhere.

  On the other side of the crossroads the buildings were very different. They were mostly places of work for merchants, traders and warehousemen. The buildings were quiet but he could feel a low hum of energy from where feet hurried back and forth all day.

  At the centre of the three narrow roads all colour had been leached out of the world leaving only a black crater. Squatting down beside it Fray reached out with one hand towards a minor depression in the ground.

  “The body lay here,” he said, just loud enough for Byrne to hear. “It was utterly drained of all life. Even the ground is showing signs of ageing. The whole place has been leached clean.” Fray poked the paved road with the toe of a boot and some of the stone crumbled like slate.

  “The corpse was barely human. He’d been dead only minutes, but it looked like a body decades old,” said Byrne.

  “I’m guessing no one heard anything.”

  Byrne shook his head. “No, but they saw a flash of light.”

  Fray studied the ground trying to find some clue to help him identify the killer but there wasn’t anything to find. He stood up and moved around the junction in a slow circle, one hand held out in front of him like a blind man searching for obstacles. Even to his attuned senses, the air felt exactly the same and there wasn’t even a hint of unusual energy. He’d left it too long. If he’d visited the murder scene immediately after it happened, he might have been able to follow the killer. Absorbing that much energy would have made the killer glow like the sun and left a trail of energy in his wake, but now it had dispersed.

  Fray thought about asking to see the body, in the hope that it might reveal a few clues, but changed his mind. He knew there would be nothing to find, just an empty shell. It looked as if for now they would have to rely on more traditional methods of finding the killer.

  Fray let go of his Talent and the world around him shifted. Colour leached from his vision until he found he was standing at the centre of a grimy crossroads that stank of piss and rotting food.

  “There’s very little here.”

  “I was afraid you were going to say that,” said Byrne, leading the way down a narrow street, moving away from the docks.

  “Were the other bodies exactly the same?”

  “Just dry husks,” said Byrne. “Three in three weeks.”

  As they moved through the streets Fray noticed people glancing in their direction. At first he was suspicious and found it uncomfortable, but then he saw the expression on people’s faces. The Guardians had become a symbol people associated with the liberation of Perizzi. Many Guardians had led units of Drassi and the Watch in the final confrontation with the zealots who had called themselves the Chosen. The uniform had come to mean so much more than when his father had worn it. Fray was saddened that his father had not lived to see it, and to see him take up the mantle.

  “Do you know why the killer is draining all life and moisture out of his victims?” asked Byrne, bringing him back to the present.

  “What makes you think it’s a man?”

  “Experience. So, why drain the bodies?” said Byrne, unwilling to be derailed from his line of questions. Fray had the impression this was part of his first lesson as a novice.

  “If a person were very unwell, this would be one way to cure something like the creep or the red pox.”

  “Permanently?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then it’s not that,” said Byrne, sounding confident. “Otherwise why would he kill three people?”

  “Perhaps the technique takes practice?”

  Byrne considered it. “Maybe, but I think it’s something else. I think the killer is getting a rush from it, like an addict.”

  “Murder is the killer’s drug?”

  “I’ve seen it a few times before,” said Byrne, his expression turning grim.

  “Did you catch them?”

  “Yes, but don’t ask me for details. The things they did to their victims were unspeakable.”

  Fray dealt with the bereaved, but that was a long way from seeing, first-hand, some of the horrible things that went on in the city every day. Fray tried not to dwell on it too much. He would face that part of the job when it happened.

  “You said this was the third victim in three weeks. So we still have some time before it happens again,” said Fray, hoping for a little good news.

  “Perhaps,” said Byrne. “This last murder was in a very public place. The killer took a big risk, so either he’s becoming more desperate, or the rush isn’t lasting as long. If it’s the latter then he could kill again very soon.”

  Fray had been a Guardian for less than a day and already he felt as if a great weight had settled on his shoulders.

  “The Old Man can only keep this secret for so long before word gets out. No one saw any of the murders, but all three ended the same way: with a crowd of people staring at a peculiar corpse, and all of them wondering if magic was involved.”

  It all came back to the war. Fear of another conflict lurked in the minds of many and fear of magic was palpable. People were not only nervous of foreigners, now they were also afraid of their neighbours. If more deformed bodies turned up on the street, it would be harder to deny that magic was involved. Once rumours began they were more difficult to smother than a forest fire. He didn’t want to think about what would happen if people began to panic.

  A week had seemed liked a reasonable amount of time to find some clues. Now they didn’t even have that. The friendly smiles that greeted Fray on the street suddenly seemed paper thin. They would soon fade if they knew magic was involved or that he was hiding his own magical Talent. Maybe he’d end up face down in the river at the hands of an angry mob or driven out of the city. Guardian or not, it wouldn’t make a difference if they knew the truth.

  Byrne glanced over. Noticing Fray’s grimace he clapped him on the shoulder. “It’s not too late yet.”

  Fray tried to smile but didn’t quite manage it. “We’re running out of time,” he muttered.

  CHAPTER 11

  Despite having been very busy for the last few days, Katja felt unspent energy coursing through her. She was distracted and went through the motions of her day in a daze. If Gankle noticed she was acting differently he didn’t say.

  Finally the last of the weeping and sobbing relatives left the building after making arrangements for their dearly departed. She helped Gankle tidy up and then went to her room upstairs.

  She changed out of her formal robes into something more comfortable, a white shirt and loose pleated skirt. She tied back her hair to keep it out of her face, checked her weapons and put a few coins in her pouch, mostly copper and a
few silver. Any gold would be suspicious and attract the wrong kind of attention.

  Checking herself in the mirror Katja spotted the pile of gold and silver she’d stolen the night before. A smile touched her lips and a spasm of unspent energy ran through her body. She took one gold coin from the pile and tucked it inside her clothes, just in case.

  When Katja arrived at the bar Roza was already waiting with two drinks. Now that they knew the threat was real the network of spies in Perizzi had redoubled their efforts. The Silent Order had refused the job, and if their information was to be trusted, the Families had turned it down as well. Katja had been told that left two possibilities. There were independents, mercenaries who were only as loyal as the gold kept flowing, and then there were those even more dangerous. True believers. People who felt what they were doing would serve the greater good and that any action was justified.

  “Why are we here?” asked Katja, glancing around the bar as they moved towards a table.

  “I’ve got people in the low dives, dockside bars, the high-end boutiques and the aristocracy’s drinking clubs. That leaves a lot of middle ground to cover.” Roza already looked tired and the night was still young. “We have to comb as many bars as we can. Look at the crowd, tell me what you see.”

  Katja sat back in her chair and let her eyes roam over the room. Her left foot tapped an endless rhythm on the floor and she could feel the blade shifting slightly against her thigh. Taking a deep breath she stopped her foot and tried to calm her thoughts.

  “I see a man surrounded by people looking to him for affirmation,” said Katja, flicking her eyes towards a broad-shouldered local man with a thick black beard.

  The group sat with him were an unusual mix, which is what had also drawn Katja’s attention. A couple of the men looked like merchants. Others sat as if they had an iron bar for a spine, which meant they’d been in the army. A few others had money, but were trying to hide it. The women were equally diverse. A Drassi merchant in a flowing silk gown, one rich local who looked very uncomfortable in such a low dive, and two bruisers who were hired muscle.