Floreskand_Wings Page 2
Her right hand comprised six fingers and held a bowl of dark water, which she moving in a circle over a crackling brazier. Her close-set olive green eyes flashed, almost luminous in this light. “Mussor, master of water, fashion me my melog!” She blew on the flames, purred, “Wrest from those I name the life-force that will drive melog, by ear and eye and nose and ear, animate my shadow assassin from out of darkness!”
With her free hand she pulled at her stringy black hair that was streaked with grey and blue. She yelped involuntarily and her fingers gripped a bunch of hair like twine, and then threw it on the flames, where it sizzled among the charred bones of sacrificed creatures.
An abrupt draught wafted through the dark shadowy place, even though there were no open windows or doors. “Winds of Lamsor, breathe life into my melog. Dark Bridansor, fashion me my creature to do my earnest bidding! Let the named ones lose the use of their limbs and become mere puppets for my melog.”
Exhaustion stretched her nerves taut, her breathing rasped in her throat. This must work; she knew she would not have the strength to repeat the spell. Lifting the bowl to her lips, she drank the entire contents, every last vile drop. Fleetingly, her stomach threatened to rebel, but she held it down and smiled. Her dry throat was cured; the corners of her mouth dribbled blackly as she reeled off names, her lips moist and slavering: “Pro-dem Hom, Den-orl Pin, Cor-aba Grie, Fet-usa Fin – you all are spawn of Saurosen and thus deserving of my creature’s dread ire!”
II
Their life is sucked from your bone.
But not only in obscure curtained night.
No, they draw strength from any light.
Barely the suggestion of a glimmer will do.
Of all, children understand them alone,
They know that the Unreal in Darkness breeds,
And their dread sustains all gloomy needs.
Oh, and children’s tears enrich them, true.
- A Life of Their Own, from
The Collected Works of Nasalmn Feider (1216-1257)
***
First Durin of Juvous
Shadows danced in the room, a faint breeze from the open door wafting the flames of the shagunblend torches, casting stripes of darkness over the supine naked woman’s corpse. Welde Dep stroked his black beard and cursed his bad luck as well as the gods. He removed his watchman’s bronze helm and placed it on the wine-stained sideboard. Those same shadows flickered over the helm’s vigilant eye, giving the absurd impression that it blinked. Kneeling beside the dead woman’s head, he glanced at the two attending watchmen who hovered near the doorway of the House of Velvet. “Make sure nobody enters until I have completed my examination.”
“Yes, sir,” said Banstrike, the more reliable of the pair. Cursh appeared disconcerted, which was not surprising, considering the amount of blood on the floor and walls. Dep suspected that Cursh didn’t have the stomach for the job; he bore watching. Watch the watchmen. As ever. The two men hurriedly slipped under the bead curtain and out the door.
The corpse was no longer recognisable. Her face had been expertly sliced off, baring bone. That accounted for the mess of blood. He shuddered and wondered if the mutilation had been done while the victim was alive. As Lornwater’s chief special investigations watchman for eleven years, he’d seen all manner of sights and dealt with man’s depravity, the cruelty meted out to men and women alike by disturbed individuals forsaken by the gods. Yet even now he was not quite inured to the grisly nature of his calling. He still felt empathy for the victims.
Stripping the skin from a person’s face was a message. Usually, the messenger was an assassin. This particular message meant that the victim would be consigned to forever roam Below and never attain eternal rest with the Overlord. That raised at least two questions: who was the assassin, and who hired him? Yet more questions lingered, however. This disfigurement was slightly different: the woman’s right eye had been cut out and placed in her left palm, and her nose was missing. Absently, he fingered the gristle that was all that remained of his right ear and let out a throaty mew of sympathy.
The dead woman’s body was twisted, as if she had fallen abruptly, her right arm trapped under her. Gripping her cold shoulder, Dep eased up the corpse and released the arm.
The glint of a gildring on her finger immediately caught his attention. Most odd. There were not many female assassins registered in Lornwater. And what was a member of the assassin’s gild doing here; and why was she killed? Was it a failed assassination attempt?
Clutched in the woman’s right palm was the missing grisly nose. The placement of the eyes and nose signified something esoteric, he felt sure. He must solicit advice from someone adept at dealing with the Darkness; his own dealings were concerned with ranmeron magic, involving personal power, and this was beyond his knowledge. He sighed. He had no choice but to approach Nostor Vata, the king’s witch.
Dep stood and studied the room.
This was a place of leisure and pleasure. He expected to see scantily-clad nubile women, fruit of the gods and wine, plenty of wine. A goblet lay on the floor, its red liquid spilt, near the sideboard. No bottles, no more goblets. Wine mixed with blood. He noticed his own bloody footprints – and those of Banstrike and Cursh – but there were no others. Most odd, indeed.
Business-like, he fished out a small black leather pouch and bagged the eye and nose. Then he removed a thin sliver of coloured paper and dabbed its edge into the spilt wine; the colour changed, but not red, rather blue. Poison, then. That was the female assassin’s method, though it clearly went awry and cost her life.
***
“I find it hard to believe that you’ve developed a sudden case of memory loss,” Watchman Dep said, levelling his dark brown eyes on the proprietor of the House of Velvet, Ska-ama. The office was small, two walls filled with shelving. Only high narrow windows admitted daylight. Shadows abounded wherever Dep looked.
“I’m trying to remember, Watchman.” He leant on his desk top, screwed-up his features. “But… it is the shock. Who was she?”
“I was hoping you’d tell me.”
Ska-ama shook his balding head and his jowls wobbled. “I didn’t recognise her. How could I, with… with…”
“What about her other features? They weren’t defiled by her killer.”
Ska-ama nodded hesitantly. “She – a terrible waste, she had a good body… but nothing that would identify her for me.”
“Do you know who was visiting your establishment earlier today?”
“No, I can’t keep account of…”
“The law says you should.” Dep sighed. “I will have to close you down, since you’re incapable of abiding by the law.”
“But – some very important people visit here. They don’t want their names associated with… with my house.”
“I’ll spare their reputations and blushes, providing you give me the information I require.”
Reluctantly, Ska-ama got up, moved sluggishly to a shelf and removed a book. “My receptionist records every person who enters and when they leave.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“So, since the woman’s body was found the place has emptied. And she managed to make a note of everyone leaving?”
“I imagine so. It’s her job.”
Dep took the book, leafed through its pages, found the most recent entries. “Seemingly not. A good half-dozen visitors are not logged out. Yet they certainly are not here now.”
“An oversight. My receptionists are usually very conscientious.”
“I’m sure they are. And doubtless being scared of vicious murderers, they abandoned their post.” He wasn’t going to get anything out of Ska-ama. “I need to interview your… staff.”
“I’ll arrange it at once. But please don’t keep them too long. They have a job, you know. Time is money.”
“Since you said ‘please’, I’ll do my best.”
“Thank you, Watchman.” Irony was lost on him, clearly.
Dep sent his two men away to check on the whereabouts of today’s visitors listed in the receptionist’s book. In the meantime, he spent the next two orms interviewing the men and women “entertainers” who “catered for all tastes”. Every one of them vowed that none of their company was missing. The dead woman was a stranger to them. This suggested that she had entered this place without being noticed, which wouldn’t be difficult for an adept assassin, and was here on a killing contract.
***
First Durinma of Juvous
At about the same time that Dep’s men returned to report that only one person on their list couldn’t be located, a man of letters called Pro-dem Hom, a message arrived from his chief, Prime Watchman Zen-il. A man identified as Pro-dem Hom had been found drowned in a vat of red ink in the dye processing factory in sector five in the Second City.
Prime Watchman Zen-il met him at the factory. He was tall, thick-set with piercing slate-grey eyes and wrinkled features. His uniform was the usual plaid, tight-fitting; he wore knee-high black leather boots.
The dead man was unclothed and had been deprived of one eye and his tongue; which were clutched in the right and left fists respectively. ‘S1’ had been burned into his forehead.
Staff who found the wordsmith had recognised him as Pro-dem Hom immediately since he often visited for writing supplies.
“Welde, I want this murderer caught soon,” said Zen-il, his voice grating. He gazed at the morticians who removed the corpse, splashing the floor in ink, making crazy patterns.
“As do I, sir.” He bagged the eye and tongue in a separate leather pouch, tied it to his belt, alongside the other evidence bag. “It’s not going to be easy, though.”
“Your cases are not meant to be easy, Welde. That’s why they’re special investigations.”
“Indeed, sir.” Dep shook his head. “Nobody saw anything. The place was full of shadows, according to the night-watchman when he found the body floating face-down.”
“Chasing shadows is not within our remit. Give me a flesh-and-blood killer. Soon. Before he strikes again!”
“Or she, sir?”
Zen-il growled, spun on his heel and stomped away, flinging over his shoulder, “Yes, ‘or she’!”
***
She didn’t appear too distressed at being made a new widow, Dep mused, sitting opposite Pro-dem Zimera. Maybe it was her upbringing, a reluctance to show emotion to strangers, especially if on official business? Good breeding, perhaps; she was the daughter of Xarop, one of the oldest nobles in the city. Her upturned nose twitched; maybe she’d caught a whiff of the contents of the evidence bags at his belt?
Wealthy just didn’t describe Zimera and her family. They lived here in the Doltra Complex, which was perched upon huge stone-block pylons and, on his approach, he felt it looked obscenely bright and clean in comparison to the dark and sullied earth surrounds beneath it. Nobody walked near the foundations, where lay the caved-in remains of an older city, which had collapsed in 1823; city and King Kculicide had perished, falling into flooded mines and, myth told, into the dread hands of the Underpeople.
“I’m sorry to ask you at a time like this,” Dep said, his tone soft, caring, “but have you any idea where your husband might have been last night?”
Her grey-green eyes flickered away from his face, but only for a moment and then she returned his gaze steadily. “He frequented the Red Tellar…” Her hands fidgeted in her lap. She was withholding some information, he felt sure.
“Really?”
Zimera nodded. “I know that was his favourite place. He was a close friend of the innman, Ulran, I believe.”
***
“I find it strange that Pro-dem Hom was a target for assassination,” Ulran said, running a hand over his short black hair. The innman was tall and commanding, even in the simple attire of a green silk shirt and loose-fitting cotton trousers. He stood at the window of his tenth storey office, gazing down at the inn’s roof-gardens.
Established some 570 years ago on the occasion of the First Festival of Brilansor, the Red Tellar Inn was situated in Marron Square in the Three Cities that comprised Lornwater. The renowned Red Tellar was the only inn in all Floreskand equipped with duelling rooms. Its ten-storey height alone would draw attention, only overshadowed in Lornwater by the two minars and the Eyrie above the Old City’s palace. There were many specialised chambers, among them music and shrine rooms, hotel rooms, staff residences, private duelling rooms, the beer-hall and the Long Gymnasium.
Ulran turned, faced Dep. “He was a man of words, and posed no threat to anybody.”
“Pro-dem Hom was rich and had the ear of the king,” Dep replied from his chair. “A powerful man, by all accounts.”
“True.” Ulran’s brown eyes narrowed. “And powerful men have enemies.”
Dep nodded. “Just so. Why did he come to your inn?”
“For the amenities it offers. He particularly liked visiting the storyteller rooms. He would write down their tales.”
“I suspect he wrote down other things. Would he be privy to improprieties here?”
“Hidden knowledge can be powerful, I admit. It’s possible he saw someone or something that might adversely affect a reputation, if you concern yourself with such matters.”
“But you have a reputation that goes before you, Ulran,” Dep countered.
“It is nothing that I foster or invite. It is the nature of a gossip-hungry public that they settle on certain individuals. I’m one of those individuals.” He shrugged. “It means nothing. Celebrity is base coin.”
“Do you know if Pro-dem Hom was working on a speech for the king?”
Ulran laughed. “He would need to write a fine speech for any of the king’s words to be praised, I assure you.” His face clouded, serious. “I do not talk sedition, it is just an observation. Our king is not widely liked by his subjects.”
Dep sucked in through his teeth. “Have you any idea why Pro-dem Hom was in the House of Velvet?”
Ulran arched an eyebrow. “It’s a pleasure house. I imagine he was seeking pleasure where he could find it, as it was no secret that his wife hadn’t provided him with any for several years…”
That would explain her lack of bereavement. “It’s puzzling. He went missing from the House of Velvet and turned up dead at the dye factory,” Dep mused. “The room assigned to him was where we found the dead assassin. If Pro-dem Hom eluded his female assassin, why didn’t he call out the watchman?”
“Yes, it is a mystery. Have you a name for the assassin yet?”
Dep shook his head. “Their gildmaster is my next call.”
“Strange, isn’t it?”
“What?” Dep asked.
“The assassin’s gild is illegal, yet it is allowed to flourish.”
Dep shrugged. “I’ve had a similar discussion with the Prime Watchman more than once. We consider that they will exist whether we proscribe them or not. Perhaps having a gild permits some kind of oversight.”
“Perhaps. The killer of the assassin might have taken Pro-dem Hom, kidnapped him?”
“It’s a slim possibility, innman. Surely they would have been seen by somebody. Yet none of those interviewed so far know anything.”
Ulran pursed his thick lips, frowned. “Drowning in ink suggests something premeditated and vicious. Despite the presence of the dead assassin, it seems that Pro-dem Hom was singled out for an unusual death. The colour of the ink might be significant too.”
Dep jotted down a note about checking on the colour red in magical rituals.
Ulran stroked his chin. “He was a good man with words, and I liked him. I’ll make my own enquiries, I think.”
“Have a care, Ulran, don’t tread on my toes.”
“I will tread so lightly you won’t know where I’ve been,” Ulran said.
III
Shifting ’tween supernal myth and every day,
They enjoy fearful images wondrously born.
And they thrive on
these myriad feelings torn
By the dark deceit that suborns what is true.
Their world is unlike ours in every way.
It’s spectral in aspect, where dusk’s forever worn,
Always at the mercy of effulgent light shone,
Be they god-hewn or man-made in effulgent hue.
- A Life of Their Own, from
The Collected Works of Nasalmn Feider (1216-1257)
***
First Sapin of Juvous
“Yes, this ring belonged to Aba-pet Fara,” explained Gildmaster Jentore, turning the pages of a thick tome. “Now, we have only six female assassins on our books.” His tone seemed to suggest that the woman’s death was an inconvenience to the gild bookkeeping, rather than a human tragedy. He stopped, pointed to an open page and an illustration. “See, these small chevrons intertwined with berries. The fruit stalks twine from the left, indicating the wearer is female.” He held the ring against the drawing; the images matched.
“Good,” Dep said. “At least we now have a name for the victim. Was she on gild business?”
“Yes.” Jentore indicated a column of dates and amounts of money below the illustration. “She registered two days ago, see... Of course, an assassin does not record who the target is, solely that there has been a commission, and the fee obtained, so that a percentage can be contributed to the gild’s coffers.”
Dep nodded, quite aware of the process and not a little irritated by the gildmaster’s manner. It was not unusual, he knew. Most gildmasters felt they were above the king’s law. The best of them was old Fascar Dak, gildmaster of precious metals and the city’s Great Gildmaster; he was always gracious and honest in his dealings with the watchmen. More than could be said of Olelsang, the gildmaster of saddle-makers, who oozed corruption from every pore yet possessed an indefinable aura that drew allegiance to him like flies to manure. “Do you think Aba-pet was intent on a target when she went to the House of Velvet?”