Under Cover of Darkness (13 page)

And farther still.

“You have to tell him not to let her use my loom!” Between
my
and
loom
, Hanra stopped following.

And that gave Terizan the rough length of Ayzarua's tether.

Terizan moved quickly between crypts and tombs, touching nothing. Unfortunately, there was one ghost she couldn't avoid, but she did her best to delay the inevitable by waiting until she saw a pair of cloaked figures slip into the catacombs and then humming all twelve verses of
Long-Legged Hazra
. If tonight's meeting followed the same pattern as last night's, that would give Saladaz time to appear and begin talking.

Motivated, Terizan got through the three locks on the Tyree tomb in record time. Once inside, she carefully lit her tiny lantern and swept the narrow beam around the shelves. It wasn't hard to find the Councillor's corpse; he was the only member of the family to have been beheaded.

Breathing through her mouth, she wrapped the shrouded body in waxed canvas and tied off the ends, leaving a length of rope just a little longer than Ayzarua's tether. Then holding the end of the rope, she dragged the body out of the tomb.

“The dead must have justice!”

Apparently, she'd pulled him away from his rant. She kept moving and didn't look back.

“Thief! Stop, thief!”

He could yell all he wanted. Unless there was a horde of dead constables around, there was no one to stop her. A quick, nervous glance from side to side determined that there were
no
hordes of dead constables.

“Do you know who I am, little thief? I am Councillor Saladaz Tyree!”

“You were,” Terizan muttered, picking up speed on the raked gravel off the path. The ranting turned to threats behind her until she stopped by the tomb with the loosened bolts and the entrance to the catacombs.

“Fool! I learned the secrets of the City of the Dead. I gathered those who would hear my voice. Everyone knows you cannot stop the dead! I will have my revenge.”

Terizan ignored him and moved one tomb further.Her arm barely fit between the bars, but she managed to put the end of the rope in Ayzarua's outstretched hand. The moonlight extended just far enough for her to see the Goddess' welcoming expression turn to grinning bone.

A little unnerved by the sudden quiet behind her, she turned to come face-to-face with Saladaz. He roared and reached for her. With the rope in the Goddess' hand, his body was now close enough that she was just within the limit of his tether.

She spun around, pressed hard against the bars, and stared into the darkness behind the Goddess. The acolyte had said that if she stared long enough, the gateway would open.

She needed that gateway open.

Goddess. Skull.

Skull. Goddess.

Five lines of icy cold down her back. Again. And again. Overcome by a despair so deep she wanted to die, Terizan sagged against the bars and reached to take the Goddess' hand.

When flesh touched stone, the darkness behind the statue lightened. A tiny circle of gray growing larger and larger until the Goddess was silhouetted against it. Only the cold wind roaring past her into the gray kept Terizan on her feet.

One last glimpse of Saladaz' face. Not a cold wind roaring past her then but his spirit being assisted through the gate. His translucent form stretched into caricature, he howled, “The dead must have justice!” as he disappeared.

Terizan lifted her other hand just far enough to flash a rude gesture.

She dropped to her knees as the gateway closed. Dragged her tongue over dry lips. Realized with the clarity that came from nearly dying, that it was the despair brought on by Saladaz' touch that had opened the Gateway. Without it, she could have stared into the darkness until she starved and nothing would have happened.

Well, if she'd starved to death, the Gateway would have opened, but she didn't have that kind of time.

She took a moment to convince herself that she'd meant to do it that way.

As soon as she could stand, she'd put the body back in the tomb. Without Saladaz, there was no conspiracy, just seven grieving men and women.

Unfortunately, the Council had asked for proof of nothing, but even she wasn't that good. She'd have to bring them proof of something else.

In the morning, she needed to have a word with an acolyte and get those names.

 

“There is no secret organization meeting in the Necropolis and conspiring against the Council.”

One steepled her fingers and smiled over them. “Prove it.”

Terizan threw a small crumpled scroll on the table. She'd picked the poet's pocket when he left his shop to get some lunch.

Two snatched the scroll from Three's fingers before it could get covered in scented oil. Unrolled it. Frowned. “This is a ballad mourning a dead love.”

“And not a good one either,” Three muttered reading over Two's shoulder.

“Poets?” One asked, lip curled. “There are poets in the Necropolis?”

“Dressing in black. Wearing silver jewelry. Rhyming
into the darkness
with
broken hearted
. And I'm not going back in there for another poem, I barely escaped as it was.” Lines of cold across her back. Her shudder was unfeigned. “You can send someone else if you need more proof.”

“We will.”

“Go ahead.”

She meant it and that convinced them. After all, if there was a conspiracy, and she turned down the job, it would go to a thief who might be less than scrupulous about the names he or she offered the Council. Terizan would never be responsible for something like that.

And everyone knew it.

(Being a most small and concise part of the
Hidden Histories of Mankind)

Paul Crilley

 

 

 

O
N THE DAY she found out about the hidden war being fought in the streets of London, Emily Doyle woke up praying for snow.

It was four o'clock in the morning, and Emily pushed aside the ragged sheet that covered the lead-paned window. She wiped the mist of her breath away and stared out into the near-darkness. Frost winked and glittered in the moonlight, a thin layer of gleaming white that reminded her of the powdered icing on Mr. Warren's cakes.

It always looked pretty at this time of the morning. Then it melted away to reveal the dirt and grime that was the norm in St. Giles.

Her prayers went unanswered. There was no snow.

She knew it was selfish, but if it snowed she wouldn't have to work. She could crawl back into bed with her two younger brothers and sleep till sunup. No such luck, though. Now she had to trek to Farringdon and buy her penny's worth of watercress to sell in the freezing weather.

She pulled her oft-patched shawl tight around her shoulders and stepped over the prone bodies of the new tenants. Emily didn't know who they were. Just that they paid their money to Mrs. Hobbs yesterday, and she told them to sleep on the floor in their room. That was the way of it in Cheapside. Her mother said they were actually the lucky ones. Some landladies put fifteen people into a room at the same time. Emily'd heard tell that when they did this, they sometimes died in their sleep. They sealed the windows in an effort to keep warm and breathed each other's air until there was nothing left to go around. When she'd heard about this it terrified her, and for days afterward she would wake up and listen to make sure her brothers were still breathing.

Emily pulled open the front door and felt the sharp bite of the air against her cheeks. She breathed in deeply and felt the last remnants of sleep leave with her explosive exhalation of white breath.

She stepped onto the deserted street and couldn't help but wonder if this was what all ten-year-old girls had to go through every day of their lives.

 

Emily had to get to the market early that morning as Mrs. Eldridge promised to give her an extra bunch of watercress if she got there first. She turned into Church Lane; she knew a shortcut from this road that would get her there in half the time. She hurried down the street. Washing lines crisscrossed the road high above. Someone had left a sheet out overnight. It was now a solid square of material that hung heavily on the line, weighing it down so that it looked like the rope would soon snap.

A broken railing between two of the tenements gave her access to the labyrinth of courts and yards that wove around and behind the main thoroughfares of London. The maze of back streets and dingy pathways was like a vast shadow cast by the city streets. The alleys were thin and claustrophobic, the buildings leaning in on her like Uncle Thomas when he'd had too much gin. She gritted her teeth and broke into a jog.

She was halfway to the market when she heard the noise up ahead. She stopped short, skidding and almost falling in a puddle of something slimy. She held her breath and listened. There it was again. A scuffling sound from around the corner, and a strange clacking noise.

Emily looked around. A lot of people used these alleyways as shortcuts, although that didn't mean they were safe. But the alley ahead was the only way if she wanted to get to the market in time.

She crept forward until she was leaning against the exposed red brick of a lodging house. She listened for a moment but still could not place the sounds. She laid her hand on the corner of the wall and started to edge her head around.

Something stung her. She jerked her hand back with a stifled yelp and stared down at it. There, stuck in the soft skin between her thumb and forefinger, was a splinter of wood. Where had that come from? She grabbed hold of it and pulled.

It wouldn't budge. She frowned and pulled harder. The skin puckered and stretched but the splinter stayed firm in her skin. Not only that, but she imagined she felt it pulling back, as if it were actively resisting her efforts. Emily let go of the stick, intending to pull out her knife blade and dig the stupid thing out, but as soon as she did so, the splinter jerked and sank deeper into her flesh.

Emily's breath caught in her throat. She grabbed hold of it again. It was definitely resisting her. She set her mouth. Nothing else for it. She tightened her fingers and with one sharp tug, she yanked the splinter from her flesh.

She could not keep a small cry from escaping. The splinter tore her skin as it came free, bringing with it a dark bubble of blood.

She ignored that, however. Her attention was focused on the piece of wood.

It wasn't a splinter. It was an arrow. A tiny arrow with a piece of flint as an arrowhead. She stared at it in bemusement for a moment, then turned and looked around the corner into the alley beyond.

A scene of carnage greeted her.

An almost silent battle was being fought, the only sound the frantic scraping and scuffling of feet on the wet cobblestones and the fierce clattering of wooden swords and daggers. Emily stared in amazement. The participants in the battle were tiny, no more than the size of her forearm. One side wore black skins and old leather, and had painted their faces so that only their eyes and teeth shone in the shadows. The others wore more natural clothing—brown leathers and earthy-colored clothes. Dark blood covered the fighters as they skirmished in the tight confines of the passage.

As Emily watched, one of the creatures broke away and limped in her direction. An arrow caught him in the back and he collapsed, twitching, not five feet from her. He lay there for a second, then he melted into the cobbles, his skin liquefying into a bloody puddle that gave off the stench of bad meat.

Emily realized that she was watching a battle between the fey.
The stories were real.
They existed, just like her little brother believed.

She stood transfixed, wondering what she should do. She wanted to take it all in, but the ferocity of the fighting frightened her.

A moment later the decision was made for her. A piercing whistle echoed through the morning air, sounding like it came from a few streets over. It was answered a moment later by others, although they were fainter and farther away.

As if they were some kind of prearranged signals, the whistles brought the fighting to a stop. The fey froze in place and cocked their heads, listening as they drew in ragged breaths. Emily could hear voices now, still far away but shouting to each other as they drew closer.

They sheathed their weapons and stepped away from each other. The black-painted faeries closed their eyes and faded into the shadows. The others slipped between gaps in the walls or into drainage holes in the gutters. Emily saw a few climbing the dirty facade of the building that faced onto the alley, pulling themselves onto the roof and vanishing from view.

In five seconds they had completely disappeared. Emily stepped into the lane. She looked at the spot where the faerie had died, but there was nothing there; even the puddle had dried up.

The voices were coming closer. She should leave now. She didn't want to be caught here.

“You, girl,” said a voice.

Emily whirled around, heart racing.

“Over here,” said the voice, irritation clear in both words.

Emily took a hesitant step forward.

“If you move any slower they'll have us both.”

She quickened her pace and found the voice's owner leaning against an old orange crate. It was one of the faeries, the ones that didn't paint themselves black. His long face was twisted in a grimace as he stared down at his leg. Emily could see an arrow sticking into his thigh, identical to the one she had pulled from her hand.