Dining room, kitchen, back to the living room, occasionally stopping to lick bits of dried carnage from her paws, and Seilloah grew ever more irritated. They were wasting their time; there was nothing here, nothing of use …
Nearing the front door, she froze, save for the slight twitch of her tail and the quickened flare of her nostrils. Most of the room was nothing but an empty abattoir, specific details obscured by the remnants of half a dozen lives running together in a single stain beneath the carpeting and between the floorboards. But off to one side, a single man—probably a bodyguard, perhaps a servant—had died just a few steps from the others, far enough that the scents and stains of his death weren’t mixed with the general filth.
She sniffed where he’d stood, where he’d stumbled back as he died. She saw the faint remnants of a soap-scrubbed stain, scented the edges of the blood, the bone, and the brain that had splattered themselves across the wall.
And Seilloah’s own blood ran cold, her tiny heart fluttering like a hummingbird’s wings, as she recognized the evidence before her.
She’d seen it last in Mecepheum, when Audriss the Serpent had wielded the power of not one demon, but two, against the assembled aristocracy. She’d seen it far more often in Corvis’s campaign, over two decades past, when he’d allowed Khanda to feast upon the souls the demon needed to maintain his power.
She’d watched the victims hemorrhage, from eyes and nose, ears and mouth, before the skull itself, unable to bear the pressures that consumed the soul from within, simply blew itself apart.
It was certainly a disturbing death to witness, and it wasn’t precisely a secret. Many had seen it happen during the Terror’s conquest, for Corvis had wielded Khanda as a bludgeon, hoping to cow the nation into surrender. But few knew the purpose of that peculiar method of killing, knew enough to associate it with the demon-spawned magics the warlord wielded.
That whoever was framing Corvis now had thought to include such a means of death—regardless of what magics they actually used to imitate it—suggested at the very least a deliberate attention to the details of all his past crimes.
And just possibly a greater knowledge of his methods than any random murderer, however potent, should possess.
Frowning as far as her snout would permit, uncomfortable with any of the myriad directions her thoughts were taking, Seilloah bounded back through the window and toward her waiting companions.
“… WISH I COULD HELP YOU,” the guard was apologizing, though he didn’t really sound like he cared much one way or the other. “Kassek knows I’d like to see the bastard brought down. But I’m just not authorized to allow anyone into the duke’s quarters. His family doesn’t want people poking around in there.”
Corvis—or rather, so far as the soldier knew, Evislan Kade the bounty hunter—stood in the lee of the great keep, watching the flickering of torches dance across its dark stone wall, and could only nod his understanding. Perhaps he might sneak in under illusion, or slip Seilloah past the soldiers at the gate, but honestly, he didn’t really think he needed to see the second murder scene.
He was already well and truly disturbed by what they’d found at the first.
But that didn’t mean there was nothing else left to learn. “I understand,” he said affably. “And I certainly wouldn’t want to cause the grieving family any more hassle.” He offered a disingenuous grin. “People tend to forget to pay when they’re upset.”
The guard grunted something.
“I also understand,” Corvis continued, dropping to a conspiratorial murmur, “that some of your fellow guardsmen actually fought the bastard outside the Guildsman’s house? I’d sure love to speak to one of them, see if he can tell me anything new. And of course, I’d be more than generous with whoever pointed me the right way.”
That brought an uncertain frown. “I don’t think,” the soldier said slowly, “that that’s the sort of stuff I ought to be blabbing, you know? I mean, giving guards’ names to strangers …”
Corvis sighed and reached into a leather pouch at his belt, muttering under his breath. Then, with a sequence of individual clanks, he methodically dropped ten gold coins into the palms of the slack-jawed fellow before him.
“Ask around for Corporal Tiviam,” the guard whispered breathlessly. “He lives in the barracks within the keep, so you wouldn’t be permitted access, but he likes to drink at the Three Sheets.”
Of course he does. Corvis shook his head, wondering when the gods might finally have had enough entertainment at his expense.
‘Not for a while yet, I’m sure. I’m certainly still laughing at you.’
“You should have no difficulty finding him there,” the young sentinel continued. “He’s been there a lot since that day, and his arm’s still in a sling.”
Corvis nodded in quick thanks and strode away. He wanted to be long gone before the muttered illusion faded, and the “gold” coins transformed once more to brass.
“… might have talked his way out of it,” Borinder was saying, struggling to keep a straight face. “But then …” A chuckle forced its way through his lips, painting his face red as it passed.
“Yeah …?” Tiviam pressed, amused yet frustrated by his companion’s jocularity. The man had some great stories, but he was utterly miserable at telling them.
“Then,” Borinder finally managed to sputter, “he left for his shift that morning, and—and he left her a handful of coins on the nightstand!”
The rest of the squad burst into peals of laughter, Tiviam guffawing louder than any of them. Even as he struggled for breath, wiped tears from his cheeks, he worried briefly they might be revealing their presence, but no. Nothing suspicious about a group of workmen enjoying a bit of fun after a hard day’s work, was there?
And besides, the captain of whom Borinder spoke was a splinter in the heel of everyone present, and indeed most of the guard as a whole. Not a man or woman at arms in Denathere would waste a single second in sympathy for him.
“Considerin’ where Captain Lorkin spends most o’ his nights,” Arral chimed in, “not to mention most o’ his pay, his wife’s lucky that a few coins is all he gave her. I’m stunned that neither o’ ‘em’s come down wit’ a good, blisterin’ case o’—”
All four glanced up, across the yard and the winding walk, as the door to the house drifted slowly open. Tiviam expected a few silk-clad folk within, perhaps guests leaving early, or one of the uniformed guards making a quick inspection of the property.
What he saw, instead, was a glimpse of hell.
Blood and flesh were strewn about the foyer, soaking into the carpet, coating the walls. He couldn’t see the faces of the dead, but then he didn’t need to, for he knew the names of everyone within.
For a span of several gasping breaths, four trained, experienced members of Denathere’s guard couldn’t move a muscle, their souls staked to the earth with coffin nails.
It isn’t possible! Tiviam could have sworn he heard the words shouted, loud enough to echo from the rooftops; only later would he realize it was all in his mind. We’d have heard something! We must have heard something!
As abruptly as it had been revealed, the carnage was obscured, for the hell that lay beyond that door birthed a devil of its own. It didn’t seem to step into the doorway so much as it was simply, suddenly there: a looming figure of naked bone and darkness filed to a jagged edge. Blood ran in rivulets from the grotesque axe in its hand, far more than should ever have clung to the blade.
Tiviam knew; knew how a houseful of people could be slaughtered without sound, knew how so many guards could fall before a single foe.
Knew who it was he faced.
And Tiviam, in the bravest act of his career—an act that would later win him a commendation and a medal that he left to rust on Borinder’s grave—screamed at his men to charge.
The Terror of the East emerged to meet them, and shrieks of panic erupted along the street. Passersby, their attention drawn by Tiviam’s cry, shoved
and tripped over one another, desperate to flee the horror they all recognized. Some would tell later how a band of courageous civilians—Tiviam’s men were, after all, dressed in workman’s clothes—had hurled themselves at the walking nightmare, bought everyone else the time to flee. It was the only thought that kept Tiviam sane in the months to come.
Borinder, long-legged and fleet of foot, was the first to reach the Terror of the East. Tiviam couldn’t even tell precisely what happened; he knew only that he saw a blur of blades, and the jovial soldier’s sword was shattered. A second flash, equally swift, and Borinder himself lay in pieces on the lawn.
The Terror raised his hands, palms out, and a gout of liquid flame the envy of any volcano arced through the air. Nassan lacked even time to scream as half his body liquefied, sloughing from his bones. Arral, hurling himself desperately aside, proved more fortunate. Though a portion of his leg sizzled away like so much frying grease—though he would never again walk without a crutch—he would live. The gods were even kind enough to allow him to pass out, that he might dwell for a time in the realm of Shashar Dream-Singer, rather than in the agony of his own ruined flesh.
And that left Tiviam, standing alone before the man who’d inflicted crippling scars upon an entire culture. He was dead; he knew he was dead. But in that, Tiviam was wrong.
He approached in a desperate lunge, broadsword leveled to punch through armor and into the bastard’s black and putrid heart. But the Terror of the East moved, far faster than any man, and the guardsman saw a haunting crimson glow emanating from beneath the warlord’s breastplate. The broadsword passed harmlessly, and the black-armored arm slammed downward, trapping Tiviam’s elbow in a grip of unyielding steel.
A twist, a barely perceptible flex, and Tiviam convulsed in agony. The sword fell to the grass as his arm flapped uselessly, the bones within broken, the elbow separated at the joint.
Empty sockets stared into frightened eyes. Tiviam trembled beneath the weight of death’s own regard, and hoped only that it would bring an end to the pain.
And then he was falling, all support gone. For the Terror of the East had simply disappeared.
LOCATING CORPORAL TIVIAM had been just as easy as the guard had suggested. Corvis and the others set themselves up in the Three Sheets, and it was only the second evening when a broad-shouldered fellow with cropped hair and his left arm in a leather sling showed up and began drinking as though to douse a fire in his gut. In fact, Corvis realized upon seeing him enter, the man had been present the other day, sitting off alone in a corner and guzzling mead. He’d been right there, had Corvis known to talk to him.
Coaxing the story from him had proved somewhat more challenging. Corvis loosened his tongue with multiple rounds, and left a small but gleaming heap of coins on the counter before him—real, this time, in case the whole escapade should take too long for an illusion to hold. And still, in the end, it was not Corvis at all, but Irrial, who got what they came for. In her huskiest voice, her auburn locks falling across her face, she fawned over the “courageous warrior.” Her breath came in sympathetic gasps over his mangled arm, and her eyes grew moist at the account of his fallen companions.
And only when she—and Corvis, sitting rapt at the next table, hanging on every word—had heard it all, did they depart, leaving Captain Tiviam to his efforts at washing the memories away. When last they saw him, his head was slumped over a drinking horn, empty save for a tiny puddle sloshing around the bottom. Into that vessel, over and over, he repeated again the last words he’d said to Irrial.
“He could have vanished at any time. He didn’t have to kill them at all …”
Corvis and Irrial pushed through the crowded market, weaving around last-minute shoppers hoping to do a final bit of business before the vendors closed up for the night. This late into the evening, the sounds of Denathere had grown muted but otherwise remained unchanged. Corvis had to fight the urge to stick a finger in each ear and waggle them about, trying to clear an obstruction that he knew was purely imaginary.
It was, for a few minutes, preferable to actually thinking.
Mindlessly, he allowed Irrial to guide him back to their quarters. The rooms stood on the third floor of an establishment far nicer than the Three Sheets (it’d been the baroness who acquired them, and it showed), but truth be told Corvis was so distracted that, if his life had depended on it, he never could have recalled its name. Only when they were settled in one of the two bedchambers—replete with chairs upholstered in cherry red, down-stuffed mattresses lined with clean linen sheets, even a brass lamp with jasmine-scented oil—did he reluctantly crawl from his comfortable mental quilts and direct his thoughts toward the tale they’d been told.
“I think we have to assume,” he said without preamble, “that whoever’s behind this has a much more detailed knowledge of me and my methods than we’d suspected.” Even saying it aloud made him uncomfortable, and he could only hope his voice was steady. The last time someone had popped up with excess information about Corvis’s past, he’d thrown the entire nation into shambles and nearly obliterated Mecepheum itself.
To say nothing of Corvis’s family …
Seilloah leapt up to the tabletop, sniffed unhappily at the glittering lamp, and then nodded perfunctorily before proceeding to chew at something stuck between her claws. “Probably a safe assumption,” she agreed.
Irrial, however, sounded less convinced. “Why? What about the corporal’s story worries you—other than the thought that someone might be even more vile than you were?”
“It’s a combination of things,” Corvis said, vaguely disturbed by the cat-witch’s behavior and, for the nonce, oblivious to Irrial’s verbal dig. “The men who died in that house by what’s been made to look like Khanda’s soul-consumption, the red glow Tiviam described …” He tapped his fingers idly on the edge of the table, stopping immediately as Seilloah glared at him. “It’s all the little details, and they’re all right.”
“What about that glow?” the baroness asked.
“Khanda. I usually wore the pendant on a chain, and it hung beneath the armor. Only someone very close when I used my magics—his magics—would have seen it. So, yeah, maybe someone who saw me fight in the past was just astoundingly observant, and remembers every detail, but I’d say the odds are pretty heavily against it. Plus, they wouldn’t necessarily understand the significance of what they saw.”
‘But it’s nice to be noticed. An artist is never appreciated in his own time, you know?’
Corvis felt his fingers curling into fists. “Would you stop?” He was never certain if he’d only thought it, or whispered aloud.
‘See? That’s exactly what I mean. You never appreciated me, Corvis. I bet you don’t remember my birthday, either.’
He allowed his eyes to squeeze as tightly shut as his fists, hoping the others would attribute it to his exhaustion.
“No,” he continued finally, “I think we’d better prepare ourselves for the notion that we’re dealing with someone who knew me personally, or who’s spoken in depth with someone who did.”
“At least it’s a short list,” Seilloah remarked around a mouthful of fur. Then, “I hate to bring this up, but Jassion did go to see Tyannon …”
“No. No chance.”
“Corvis—”
“No. I’m not saying it’s impossible that she’d have helped him to find me, under the right circumstances, but even if she remembered details, why would she tell him? They wouldn’t do him any good in hunting me down. We’re looking for someone else.”
Seilloah and Irrial exchanged skeptical glances, but neither pressed the issue.
“So yes,” he said, “it’s a small list. And the first step is to find them.”
Corvis looked deeply into the lamp’s burning light, focusing past his fatigue. And gods, the last few days shouldn’t have been so exhausting! I should never have agreed to getting old …
“Davro first.” Corvis felt the faint tug of his spell, gazed
off in its direction even though there was little to see but a dull beige wall. Wading through sluggish thoughts, he translated the strength of the pull into a sense of distance, and that distance into a line on his mental map of Imphallion …
“Still in that bucolic valley of his, I think.” Corvis couldn’t help grinning, remembering his response upon first learning what had become of the fearsome ogre.
“I’m not sure that means anything,” Seilloah warned. “He was really unhappy with you.”
“True. But he also doesn’t want anyone knowing where he lives. I doubt he’d risk drawing attention to himself. Still, we’ll follow up if we need to.”
Again he concentrated, using the flickering flame as a focus. But this time, there was …
“Nothing.” He rocked back in his chair, blinking rapidly. “Losalis is gone, Seilloah.”
“Are you sure? Maybe someone just broke the spell.”
“Maybe.” But he didn’t sound at all convinced, and for long moments he refused to speak any further.
“Losalis was a good man,” he said finally, answering the question embedded in their silence. “Or at least he was a loyal one. I just hope, if he is dead, that it was nothing I did that got him killed.”
“Right,” Irrial spat with surprising rancor. “Because that’s so much worse than the thousands of good men that you killed deliberately.”