Shadow's Son (9 page)

"Good. See you outside." She sank through the floor.

Sometimes I wish she was real.
Caim undid the locks securing his door.
So I could wring her pretty little neck.

He peered out. The hallway was empty. He pulled the hood of the
cloak over his head as he slipped down the corridor.

Kit joined him on the city's mist-shrouded streets. She whistled an
eerie tune while she skipped beside him. It sounded like a funeral march.
He considered asking her to shut up, but knew it would only encourage
her to whistle louder. At least it was a good night for working. A blanket
of clouds occluded the stars. The moon peeked out every few minutes,
only to be hidden again behind the shroud of dark.

He took a roundabout way to the target as a matter of habit. There
were few pedestrians about. As winter approached and the days grew
shorter, people tended to make their way home earlier, but Caim enjoyed
the brisk weather. People closed their minds to the outdoors when the
temperature dropped; sentries spent more time seeking warmth than
manning their posts.

He paused at the Processional. The broad avenue continued downtown to the Forum. The minarets of prayer towers jutted above the stately roofs of government buildings, all silent at this hour. Beyond them and
taller still rose the unfinished towers of the new cathedral. Fires burned at
the zenith of every overlook, proclaiming the supremacy of the True
Church for all to see.

Caim crouched behind the weathered statue of a dead civic hero festooned with pigeon droppings as a patrol of night watchmen marched along
the thoroughfare. Their spear butts struck the ancient cobbles like the
hooves of a forty-legged beast. When they passed from sight, he darted
across, just another gray shadow in the twilight. A six-foot wall ran along
the other side of the street, intended to keep out the riffraff, but it was
broken by so many gates and posterns, most of them unguarded, as to make
for no barrier at all. Once on the other side, he was inside High Town.

Caim kept to the smaller avenues and avoided the wider boulevards
that crisscrossed the burg like the warp and weft of a weaver's loom. Glass
lamps lit the tree-lined streets. Mansions of stone and timber stood silent
behind tall gates. Caim passed a party of nobles attended by linkmen and
bodyguards at an intersection, but they paid him no mind. With his
stooped shoulders and quick steps, he was just another servant attending
to his master's business.

"Where are we going, anyways?" Kit stopped to tickle the whiskers
of a stray tomcat. The animal followed her, which meant it trailed behind
Caim like a lost child. He resisted the urge to boot it over a fence.

"Esquiline Hill." He indulged her, hoping some conversation might
make her forget about the stupid cat.

Instead, she blew in its tufted ears, which made the animal yowl like
a wounded groundhog.

"You're coming up in the world,
Caim. I hope you were smart enough
to demand a bushel of money. Hey! Maybe we could stay in the house for
a couple days after the job. It would be nice to hang out someplace livable
instead of that shack you call a home."

"I'm not sticking around afterward," he replied.

"Spoken like a true man, gone as soon as the deed is done. Why not
stay? I doubt the owner will protest after you cut his throat. If you're
squeamish, we could just avoid the room with the body. We'd have plenty
of space-"

"You're a nut. You know that?"

"It was just a suggestion."

As they started up the long incline of Esquiline Hill, the homes
became larger, each more opulent than the one before. Their walls glistened in ivory and salmon marble, unstained by the city's ordure. Smooth
pavestones replaced the street's cruddy brick.

Caim went over the job in his head. Two days wasn't much time, but
he had put it to good use. He had located the target's home, a three-story
Graccian-style manse at the apex of Founders Circle, and spent most of
the first night casing the site. The house had a gloomy look. Tall windows
gaped in the dark stone facade like empty eye sockets. A high wall encircled the property. The gate was a gaudy monstrosity of wrought iron.

"This is nice." Kit floated up to peek over the wall. "A lot nicer than
that old barn you live in."

"Just get inside and take a look around, will you?"

With a smirk in his direction, she walked through the stone. Caim
ducked into a spacious alley between the wall and the next property, a similarly impressive mansion. Around back he found a servants' entrance, a
simple wooden gate secured from the inside. In less than a heartbeat, Caim
was over it and crouched on the other side. He listened for signs of alarm,
but the yard was silent. True to the report, there were no sentries and no
dogs, for which he was grateful. Even though his information explicitly
stated the target owned no animals, Caim had brought a pouch of pepperlaced meat just in case. No lights showed in any of the windows.

Caim darted across the yard. The outer face of the house was stone
brick. His information suggested forcing the rear door and stealing up the
inside of the house. Detailed plans of the building were included in the
packet, with the stairs and entry points clearly marked. The target's
chambers were situated in the northeast corner of the top floor. The only
servant, a middle-aged butler, bunked on the second floor. While it was a
sound plan, Caim had discarded it at once. Forcing doors was a noisy
affair, which meant an added chance of attracting attention. Plus, he
didn't like anyone telling him his business.

As he crouched in the lee of the house, he reached into his satchel for
a bundle of thin rope. He portioned out a loop and tied a slider knot. A
grappling hook wouldn't bite on the slate shingles and would make an
awful clatter, but like most large homes the roof of this manse sported several chimneys.
Caim hurled the lariat up and over the lip of the roof.
On the third throw it caught on something. Caim tugged several times
and the line held. He had a solid anchor. After one last glance about the
yard, he went up the line hand over hand.

He found Kit at the top, lounging on the canted tiles.

"Are you going to take all night?" she asked.

Caim gathered up the rope behind him. He left it coiled around the
chimney stack it had snagged on. "I thought you wanted to stay a bit."

She sat up. "Can we? It's really beautiful inside! You have to see this
crys-"

"Any guards?"

Kit huffed and laid back on the rooftop. Her hair spread out beneath
her head like a silver pool. "No."

"Is the servant asleep?"

"I suppose."

"You didn't check?"

"Of course I did. All the lights are out and no one is moving."

"Good."

Caim ignored Kit's glare and crossed the tiles. At the northeast
corner, he lowered himself onto his belly and leaned over the edge. The
window he wanted was directly below his perch. He swung his legs over
the side, lined it up as best he could, and let go.

He landed on the pitched gable protecting the window with barely a
sound. From there it was an easy shimmy down to the casement. Caim
stepped out onto the narrow stone shelf projecting from the windowsill
with care. With some old houses, the masonry was weak and prone to collapse. But it held.

The shutters were closed and secured from the inside.
Caim took a
thin steel bar from his belt and slid the hooked end between the wooden
doors. After a moment of searching, he snagged the latch and lifted it out
of the catch. The hinges swung open without protest. The window was
closed, but not locked. Caim pushed the misted panes open far enough to
slip inside.

He paused as his soles touched down on the floor of a hallway, one
hand under his cloak to grip the hilt of a knife. This was the most precarious moment. Had his entrance been heard? He listened for sounds of movement, for the sharp intake before a cry was given. Even an old man
could raise a hue, and in this neighborhood the tinmen would come running. Fortune favored him tonight. All was quiet.

The hallway ran the width of the top floor and joined with a staircase
winding down to the levels below. The target's room was the third door on
the right. Caim crept across the hardwood floor and paused at the first door
to listen. According to the packet, the target's daughter was a child of five.
She should be sound asleep at this hour, but children could be unpredictable. The crack under the door was dark and no sounds issued through
the wooden panels, but Caim stood at the door for several moments. He
didn't like the idea of harming innocents, especially children. Yet by his
actions tonight he would be making an orphan of this girl.

I'm serving the greater good.
The target was a vicious man who had
earned death a hundred times over. The daughter would be better off
without him.
Sure. That worked out well for Duke Reinards son, right?
Caim
put the thoughts out of his head as he continued to the third door, the
master suite.

He drew his right-hand knife, turned the knob, and eased the door
open. By the orange glow that emanated from the stone hearth, he could
make out the details of the long room, which was larger than his entire
apartment. A four-poster bed against the far wall dominated the floor
space, but there was room enough for a large desk and chair, a sideboard,
and rosewood cabinets. The bed was empty, its blankets flat against the
tall mattress.

Caim turned his head very slowly until he located his target, slouched
in a chair beside an antique desk. Wisps of white hair rose above the seat
back.

Caim glided across the bedchamber floor and yanked the head upright
by the hairs with his free hand. The
suete
knife came up. Its point hovered
as Caim stared down at his victim.

He could not believe his eyes.

"Can we go now? Please?"

Kit sat on the desk and regarded the old man's body. She'd appeared moments after Calm's discovery. Upon hearing that it hadn't been him
who put the victim's lights out for good, she had lost her zest for sticking
around, but he wasn't ready to go, not until he made sense of this.

Was another contractor working the same job? This was a good score
and there were plenty of knives looking for work. Throat-slitting had
been a time-honored tradition in Othir since the days of the emperors,
long before Caim had set foot within the city limits. The viciousness of
Nimean politics was legendary throughout the world, and it hadn't lost
any of its ferocity with the rise of the Church. But Mathias usually made
sure he had exclusive rights before farming out an assignment. In fact, he
was obsessive about such things. It was just good business.

Caim leaned against the victim's desk. Curled sheets of parchment
were stacked on the cherry surface, held down by brass equestrian paperweights. The inside of a glass tumbler was smeared with a glazy film. He
smelled it. Ground fennel root, a tonic for headaches. A ceramic frame
rested on the shelf above the desktop with the portrait of a young girl
with striking green eyes. She sat in an elegant pose, black tresses curled
around her heart-shaped face, gloved hands folded upon her lap.

Caim looked back at the old man. He didn't look much like a fabled
general. He more resembled a scholar with his long, somber features and
aquiline nose. The loose folds of his nightgown showed where his chest
had been hacked open. Hacked was the operative word. The cuts looked
like they had been made with a meat cleaver.

He bent down closer. Some blood was pooled in the old man's lap, but
not nearly enough for such a traumatic injury. And the carpet beneath the
seat was dry except for a few coin-sized dots of blood. The victim's eyes
were open wide, the muscles in his face tensed. Both hands hung straight
down at his sides. No signs of rope burns, but rings glittered on both
hands, one gold band set with a large beryl. Caim frowned. A Gutter-bred
thug wouldn't have missed those pieces, which would bring a good price
at any fence in the city. There were no other signs of distress, so either the
old man had been taken unawares, or he had let his killer do the bloody
work without a struggle.

Or he had been dead before he was cut open.

Caim searched for other means of death. A quick inspection ruled out
strangulation, poison, and blunt force. He knew of a few poisons that left their victims paralyzed, but they were expensive and difficult to procure.
In any case, why use poison when you intended to carve up your victim
afterward? The only reason was to send a message. But to whom?

"Caim?" Kit said.

He walked around to peer over the victim's shoulder. The angle was
poor. The killer must have worked from the front, or he had an accomplice. Possible scenarios played through Calm's head as he came back
around to the front. He squatted beside the corpse and reached out with
a gloved finger. The flesh around the wound was discolored, turned almost
tar black, and the hole was deeper than he first thought. The victim's
breastbone had been shattered by the impact. Forget about a meat cleaver.
The killer must have used something heavier. Like what? An axe? It
seemed to Caim as if he had seen something like this before, but he
couldn't remember where. He slid his fingers deeper into the wound,
ignoring Kit's
ewww
of disgust, and made another discovery.