Spectyr Page 15

  “Something is happening in the garden.” Sorcha slammed the shutter tight. “Lots of torches and guards.”

  Without further discussion they got back into their clothes, while outside they could hear a commotion growing. They were not the only ones to be disturbed.

  Sorcha glanced at Raed. “You can’t go out the way you came in. Here.” She threw her cloak about him and pulled the hood up. “I think there is enough trouble out there that they won’t notice you’re not exactly female.”

  He grabbed a quick kiss. “By the Blood, you do know how to flatter a man.”

  She was right; out in the hallway there was much running and wailing as women woke to the chaos outside. They pushed through the panicked women and ran down the stairs.

  “Is it a geist?” Raed spoke directly into Sorcha’s ear—suddenly worried that whatever had attacked him on the boat had found him again.

  She paused in the tumult, and her eyes unfocused as she concentrated on the world that only the Deacons could see. “It is hard for me to tell—I need Merrick.” She sounded annoyed, then her head flicked around. For a second Raed thought he heard the younger Deacon’s name repeating in his skull—a whisper that made his skin crawl.

  Before he could wonder on the strangeness of that, Sorcha darted down the remaining stairs, pushing aside the womenfolk as if they were not even of the same species as her. Raed wouldn’t let her get out of his sight, however; he followed in her rather rude wake.

  Outside, the courtyard garden was all lush tropical foliage and hanging exotic flowers. It was not laid out in the northern fashion with symmetrical design. This was a little slice of luxury from the jungles in the eastern part of Arkaym—where there was more rainfall. It did, however, have a white gravel path, so he and Sorcha dashed along it, following the universal call.

  “Alarm! Alarm!” It was the hue and cry that every citizen of the Empire was called upon to answer. The palace guard would quickly come running.

  They rounded a large ficus tree and found themselves at the scene of the disturbance. Three guards stood among this beauty and looked down at a scene of utter horror. This was the center of the pleasure garden, marked with a delicate marble fountain—and perfumed by exotic honey scents.

  At least, that was how it should have been. At first glance it was hard to tell that the bodies lying there had been human. Blood was everywhere: splattered against the beautiful fountain, pooling in the white gravel and covering the bodies.

  “I need those torches closer!” Sorcha’s Deacon training brought so much command to her voice that these men did not question. They moved, but she had to snap, “But not in the blood, fools!”

  The nearest guard, young and with barely a beard on his face, turned whiteheard the div>

  Raed knew the look from green sailors, and apparently so did Sorcha. “And Unholy Bones, if you need to be sick—go do it elsewhere!”

  Handing his torch to his colleague, he trotted off to do as bidden.

  “Stay close,” Sorcha whispered somewhat redundantly. As a Deacon she would not be questioned, whereas he, an unaccompanied male, would probably be killed on sight. He certainly wasn’t going to just wander off.

  “I’ll do my best,” Raed muttered, feeling utterly useless but somewhat relieved that at the moment the Rossin was silent.

  After the guards lit the scene a little better by planting their torch spears in the gravel, Sorcha waved them back. Despite the difference in Chiomese and Vermillion Deacons, the guards did so—most likely they were grateful to have someone else to defer to.

  Leaves on the other side of the garden rustled. The guards, naturally jumpy, nearly sliced Merrick in half as he stumbled out of the bushes.

  He blinked at the pair of swords leveled at him before calmly brushing them aside with the tip of one finger. With all the situations they had been thrown into, Merrick had always shown the kind of center and focus that the Order specialized in—a graveness seldom seen in one so young.

  The Deacon nodded to Raed, though his barely buttoned shirt and badly fixed cloak were evidence that he too had been caught unaware. “What do we have, Sorcha?” Merrick asked.

  Crouched over the bodies, she glanced at him with dark humor. “I could be wrong—but I am fairly sure it is murder.”

  One old woman and one young lay spread in the white gravel of the garden, their blood staining it as red as spilled wine. Their throats had been ripped out with savagery—more than enough to kill them. And yet their murderer had gone much further. Their chests and bellies had been cut open. The final outrage in this bizarre display was that the killer had placed their organs between their legs. The smell was awful, even in the sweet-scented pleasure garden.

  “No hearts.” Sorcha poked delicately at the mound of organs. “The hearts are missing.”

  “And this blood is still very fresh.” Merrick’s eyes darted around the scene, with the slightly glazed look that signaled the use of Sight. Raed was impressed the young Deacon had managed to keep his dinner down. “And such ritual is usually the domain of someone possessed—it could even be an attempt to open a gateway to the Otherside.”

  The guards, already jumpy, spun around to peer into the shadowy corners of the jungle gardens. “Geists,” one whispered, “like last time.”

  “Last time?” Sorcha’s head jerked up, her blue eyes fixing on the slightly older guard.

  Under such a concentrated gaze, stronger men had given in—and this poor old sergeant had no chance. “More deaths—last week—but in the city,” he choked out.

  The Young Pretender thought of the creature that had attacked him in the river—but that had been miles away. And yet . . . and yet . . . by the Blood, let it not be so.

  “Wonderful.” Sorcha’s voice indicated it was anything but.

  Raed considered himself as much an expert on geists as anyone outside the Order—having one living inside him had given him a unique insight. It did look like the work of someone possessed; since geists could not affect the world directly, they usually had to take on flesh already made to wreak ruin in the world. Even his own Curse, the Rossin, had been forced to link himself to a bloodline to both survive and make its presence felt.

  “Merrick?” Sorcha looked up at her partner. The young Deacon’s eyes continued to flick around the garden—even as a shadow of a frown began to darken his brow.

  Finding Fraine would be so much easier with their power to aid him. The meaning of this double murder and how that fit with his sister’s kidnapping, that was what frightened him. A pit of possibilities yawned before him.

  Sorcha and got to her feet. Deacons were always so damned inscrutable that Raed was forced to ask the question that the spooked guards were all wondering. “So, is there any geist activity?”

  “Not that we can see,” she replied—though no further words had passed between her and her partner.

  “Who are these ladies?” Merrick gestured down to the victims. Raed wasn’t entirely sure of the fashions of the Court of Chioma, but one glance at the richness of their dress and the coils of jewels on their wrists and necks was answer enough. These were not some unlucky serving girls.

  “Meilsi and her daughter Rani,” one of the guards choked out, “from one of the best and oldest families in Chioma. Good, kind ladies—who would do such a thing to them?”

  The Deacons had no answers; in their profession they must be often asked that question.

  “I thought you could see everything?” Raed said to Merrick. “How can someone slay two women and then disappear without you noticing anything at all?”

  The young Deacon let the accusation roll off him but closed his eyes one more time. “Still no geists, and I can feel every human in this palace, but none with blood on their hands or murder in their hearts.”

  It was exasperating—but it was the way of the Deacons. Raed, having learned to rely on non-magical senses, gestured to the guards. “Stay still.”

  The gravel in the center of the garden
was churned up, covered in blood and gore and of little use, but as the Young Pretender stepped carefully beyond that, he saw quickly with the eye of a man trained to hunt from childhood that there was one set of footprints that did not belong to them or the victims.

  “As far as I know”—he beckoned Sorcha over and pointed to the line of footsteps—“geists do not leave trails.”

  A little smile tweaked the corner of her full lips. “Not usually—but I won’t be disappointed if it is just a madman.”

  “We’d better be quick about it.” Then Raed turned and fixed the guards with a stern look—the look of disappointed royalty. “Protect your Prince’s women—better than you have already done tonight.” Could his own sister have been better protected? Could her guards have been a little too lax in their duty?

  With those bitter thoughts, Raed spun on his heel and followed the trail. It was a blessing that careful gardeners had raked the gravel so precisely and regularly—possibly only a short time before the murders. The power of Princes was for once working for the Young Pretender.

  “Keep behind me, if you please, Honored Deacons.” He gave Merrick and Sorcha a little bow. “We shall use a little of my skill.”

  She rolled her eyes, and ick tilted his head, neither happy with this change of circumstances.

  Together they pushed through the lush jungle foliage, following the disturbed path back to the buildings. The trail did not lead to the exit they had tumbled out of so recently—and Raed was grateful for that. The idea of a crazed murderer or a possessed innocent rampaging among the frightened women was not one the Young Pretender wished to contemplate.

  Instead, the signs led them toward a door that was obviously meant to be barred. When Raed had snuck into the palace, it had been over the undulating roofs—someone else had taken a far more direct approach.

  The three of them there stood there and gaped. The wrought iron gate lay with its thick lock askew and hanging off its hinges as if kicked by a great horse—except no creature on four legs, or indeed one on two, could possibly have twisted and destroyed it in such a way.

  Raed turned and cocked an eyebrow at the remarkably silent Deacons. “Still think this is the work of a madman?”

  “Point made, Your Majesty,” Sorcha replied tightly.

  They slipped into the corridor, and Raed managed not to make any further comment. Once beyond the loose white pebble paths, there was still a possibility of tracking the offender. The dry, soft mud walls and floor of the Hive City still held a faint impression that even the most careful foot could not avoid. It was a good thing they were not trying to do this in the Imperial Palace with its much-admired marble flooring.

  Sorcha and Merrick followed behind him, and Raed was pleased he was able to show some of his skills—he had witnessed theirs often enough.

  Why the younger Deacon was unable to sense the flight of the murderer remained a mystery, but he looked none too pleased to be stripped of his powers. As Raed knelt and examined the signs at a corridor junction, he glanced over his shoulder at Merrick. “Anything?”

  The younger Deacon pushed his hair out of his eyes, even as they dipped away from reality again. “It’s like”—he waved his hand, searching for a word—“a shadow of something in here. Not a geist—something else.”

  It was easier by far to see the press of a foot and the brush of a cloak against the walls than to understand what Merrick was going on about.

  With a gesture, Raed urged them to follow him. They were moving off the main corridors and into dustier rooms. These appeared to have been abandoned long ago. The shapes of sheet-covered furniture and stacked boxes were eerie in a palace so packed with people. What could have caused them to abandon perfectly habitable looking rooms?

  A strange odor permeated the air; not just dust but something almost sweet, as if an incense bearer had just passed by. Raed’s heart began to race at the air of menace in these rooms. Nothing warm or welcoming lingered here, and he found himself hurrying through them.

  Apparently he was not the only one feeling it.

  “I didn’t realize the Hive City went so deep.” Sorcha shot Merrick a look as if she expected him to say something, but her partner was fingering his Strop and completely distracted. Raed was glad he was not the only one with flesh rough with goose pimples.

  Still, it gave him a chance to show off something else—his education. “Orinthal is called the Hive City because it is modeled after the red flame termite—the one that builds those red earth towers in the desert.”

  She blinked at him.

  “I think you need to get out more,” Raed chided as he paused to examine the floor leading to a set of stairs spiraling down. “Unfortunately, it won’t be tonight—this person is going even deeper.”

  “I still can’t feel anything human ahead of us.” Merrick sounded both troubled and annoyed at the same time. “Insects, small mammals, but nothing larger.”

  Sorcha pulled her Gauntlets out of her belt. “Nice to know the Prince is not above having a vermin problem.”

  “Shall I try the Strop?” With shock Raed realized that the Deacon was asking him, not his partner. It was frightening how easily the three of them slipped into roles, just as they had beneath Vermillion. Something in the gaze of both Deacons told Raed that they also remembered their time together in the ossuary.

  Raed cleared his throat. “We can’t afford to let this person get away—stay here if you want.” The empty place on his belt where his sword should have been suddenly felt even greater. Like every other person in the Hive City, he had been forced to surrender his weapon before entering—everyone, that was, except the Order.

  Sorcha unhooked her sword and handed it, sheath and all, to him. “I am already armed enough.” She put on the Gauntlets. The brown leather with the faint flicker of luminescence made her point.

  Her tone was light, as if she didn’t know the implications of lending her sword to someone not of the Order. It was this trusting gesture, a surrender of control, a placing of her reputation in his hands, that stopped Raed in his tracks.

  He would not question her trust, however—to do so would be to sully it somehow. Instead, Raed buckled the sheath onto his own belt, then, taking a sputtering bare flame torch from the wall, he lead the way down the stairs.

  The Hive City was naturally cool, thanks to its thick soil walls, but as they went deeper underground it actually became freezing. The thin clothing they all wore was inadequate—but no one was turning tail at this point.

  “I sense running water.” Merrick pointed down, his eyes slightly unfocused. “It is interfering with my Sight a little.”

  “Water—down here? I don’t hear it.” Sorcha stood between the two men, her voice an unintentional whisper.

  “The Hive City only survives because it sits on a huge network of underground channels.” Raed, though he didn’t particularly feel like a history lesson, was glad to have something to add. The pressing atmosphere had nothing to do with the water supply and everything to do with the churning feeling in his chest—a sure sign that the Rossin was hovering on the edges of awareness.

  Yet Merrick had said that there were no geists about. Raed repeated that to himself, trying not to think that Merrick was also not able to sense a person whose blatant trail they were following.

  And then there was a noise. All three of them froze on the stairs. It was a dragging metallic sound—and not very far ahead.

  Carefully, Raed led the Deacons forward, his hand locked tightly around the pommel of Sorcha’s sword. They were now so deep that there was even faint moisture in the air, and the long, low corridor that they were in was becoming more and more like a tunnel.

  “Still nothing!” Merrick now sounded really annoyed.

  Sorcha, who had taken a place at Raed’s shoulder, looked back. “Certainly there is something down here—I think you better try the Strop.”

  Her partner had just reached for his talisman when the tunnel began to shake. The sudden
wild movement knocked Sorcha back against Raed, and he in turn actually came off his feet. The sound was now the angry roar of a disturbed beast. Small stones came loose and bounced off them even as the Young Pretender threw his arms around Sorcha, protecting her head.

  Merrick, by some act of luck or grace, had managed to stay upright—at least until the floor abruptly gave way beneath him. Raed caught the distinct impression of his wide eyes and shocked face before he tumbled out of sight.

  “Merrick!” Sorcha screamed and crawled on her hands and knees to the gaping hole, even though the edge looked anything but stable. The earth’s shaking subsided as quickly as it had come, and now her calls were more desperate.

  “He’ll be all right.” Raed grabbed her around the shoulder and peered down into the void. “It’s one of the channels I told you about.” When he thrust the torch in, he fully expected to see Merrick staring back, perhaps nursing some bruises, perhaps a little embarrassed. The drop was not a great one, and the running water below must have only been enough to cover his ankles.

  And yet, once his eyes became used to the even greater darkness, there was no sign of the young Deacon. Hanging on to the broken lip of the tunnel floor, Raed looked to either side of the channel, but there was nothing. Merrick would not have run off. He could not have been swept away, because the water was not nearly that deep or fast-moving.

  “Where is he?” he said half to himself and half to Sorcha. Raed levered himself up and glanced across at her.

  “I don’t know,” she whispered, her hands clenched uselessly on her lap. “I can’t feel him.”

  The lonely, broken tone in her voice was not one that Raed was used to hearing. It sounded a lot like grief.

  “Stay here.” Hanging from his arms, he dropped easily down into the tunnel. Pieces of broken floor lay scattered in the chill, running water—there was no sign of the Deacon.

  How is that possible? he wondered and stalked a little way up the channel on each side. “Merrick? Are you there, lad?”

  If calling him “lad” didn’t get a reply, then Raed didn’t know what would. He felt so incredibly powerless. The young Deacon had just been there, by the Blood!