Shadow's Son (11 page)

"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
facades 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 Calm'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."