Faith and Moonlight (7 page)

THE BOY FELT IT BEFORE he saw it.

There was a chill feeling, different from the usual cold
that filled the stone halls of the orphanage. That cold was familiar and
simple. You felt it in your bones. You endured it by hovering closer to the
kitchen fire before the matron caught you, or by sharing a blanket with your
chosen brothers and sisters.

But this was different. This was a sharp-edged cold. Like
the glitter that came off the knife they used to kill the goats. Like the ice
that sheathed the old tree outside and made the branches snap off. He did not
feel this cold in his bones, but in his very soul. And it made him want to
whimper with fear.

He had tried to keep quiet. Already many of the other
orphans were angry at him. The dancers and jugglers had them clapping and
laughing, a rare treat for the forgotten children housed here.

Until he had begun screaming and pointing at one of the
performers.

He had ruined the show, and the embarrassed matron sent the
children off to their dormitories immediately. Their anger was palpable, a
terrible thing he felt all around, and he could hear harsh whispers up and down
the halls of the old fortress that served as the orphanage. “Crazy is at it
again,” he heard. “The lunatic’s seeing monsters again.” He knew if not for his
friends, he would have suffered that night.

His friends Elinor, Alys, Roan, and Kay had not been angry,
though. They believed him. They comforted him, drawing him away from the
performers and out of the room without a look back at the ruined entertainment.
Elinor wrapped an arm around his shoulders as they walked and Roan stared
daggers at the other orphans, defying their anger at his friend. Together, they
returned to the dormitory and prepared for bed.

No, his friends had not been angry like the other children
were. They never were. But he also knew they did not understand. Not truly.
Even he began to doubt himself. Perhaps the cruel whispers from the other
children were right, he thought.

Until tonight. Until he had seen the blackheart just an
arm’s length away from him and he screamed and screamed till his throat was
raw. Where their hearts should have been, oily mud and black smoke oozed from
their chests to cover their bodies. He had seen them three times before, but
never up close like this.

Even now, in the small hours of the night when everyone in
the large room was asleep, the boy remained awake. The fear of the shadowed
juggler would not leave him, and behind his closed eyes, he pictured the
horrible darkness moving over the man. The feeling crept over him more and
more. The cold feeling. Sharp. Dangerous.

He finally could not stand it any longer. His eyes snapped
open, and he looked across the darkened room, past the simple cots the orphans
all slept on.

And he saw it.

The blackheart was in the room. The rolling, oily blackness
spilled from its chest like blood from a wound, deeper even than the dark of
the night. It stood across the room from him, looming over the foot of one
girl’s bed. The boy felt his heart pounding, and he longed to reach out to
touch his friends, either to wake them to see what he saw or to wake himself
from what must be a nightmare. But he was too frightened to move.

As he watched, the juggler’s shape sloughed off, dropping
to the floor like a discarded garment. In its place was something more
horrifying. The head became longer and had no eyes, only a round mouth from
which the boy could see wicked teeth. It craned a long, serpent-like neck
toward the sleeping child while reaching forward with ragged claws at the end
of spindly arms. The thing bent down to feed, and the boy moaned with terror.

The long neck whipped impossibly around, turning its
eyeless face toward the boy. It dropped to all fours and charged across the
room.

For the second time that night the boy screamed himself
raw.

***

Ferran opened his eyes and tried to still his breathing. The
room was warm. All around him were men and women, wearing the earthy colors
favored by the Order of Talan. Many of them had their exposed skin heavily
tattooed with strange symbols and designs. But all of them looked on him with
understanding eyes.

An old man stepped forward, leaning heavily on a cane. Dark
stripes were inked onto his weathered and wrinkled face, contrasting with the
bright white of his long beard. He stood before Ferran and watched as the young
man drew deep breaths.

“What did you see?” the old man asked.

Ferran matched the old man’s gaze and steadied himself. “My
past,” Ferran said.

The old man studied him for a long moment and then nodded
once. He stepped out of the way and made a gesture. Across the length of the
chamber, a heavy iron door swung open, to reveal the creature from his memory.
The monstrous head whipped around and the circular maw puckered at the air.
Long talons scraped across the floor with a high-pitched keening as it drew
away from the open door.

“What do you see?” the old man asked from behind Ferran.

In his left hand, Ferran felt the weight of a long length
of silver chain, and he let one end fall to the floor with a clear, bright
ring. His other hand tightened around the haft of a short spear, the blade held
before him, catching the light of the torches carried by the members of the
Order who looked on.

“What do you see?” the old man asked once more.

Ferran’s lips drew back into a savage smile. “My future,”
he said and advanced on the monster.

A Messy Little Murder

The slow lapping of the Prion River mingled with the
creaking wood symphony of the water wheel beside the dock. Moonlight tinted the
heavy fog as the last hours of night became the first hours of morning. The
heavy mist lay upon the woman’s corpse, fat drops of dew sitting on the blood
and making it shine.

Alys bent over the body, her hands on her hips as she
studied the dead woman’s face. Young. Roughed up. She may have been pretty
once, but it was impossible to tell now. Old bruises and new mixed with dried
blood to create a mask over the girl’s features.

Alys turned to the man standing against the wooden wall of
the pier and shrugged. “What do you want me to say?”

The man finished speaking to a pair of city guards and
waited until the two men clanked away in their armored breastplates and shiny
helms. His light hair, always cropped close and crisply perfect, shone briefly
in the glow from the torches the guards carried. Alys caught just a glimpse of
those familiar blue eyes before the light from the torches faded away.

He pulled his long coat closer about him against the chill
of the morning. The black fabric and gray striping of a royal magistrate made
him stand out.

She corrected her thoughts.
Stand out even more.

“I want you to tell me what happened,” he said.

She laughed, adjusting the large-bladed scythe that she
carried across her back. “What happened? Someone killed her, Magistrate
Inspector Daxton Ellis,” Alys said, punctuating every syllable of the man’s
title with a clipped enunciation.

He gave her a long, hard stare. “Nothing is ever easy with
you, is it, Alys?”

“It’s part of my charm,” she said, moving over to the wall
beside him. As she drew closer, she studied his face – the subtle play of
muscles around his eyes, the set of his mouth. He was always easy to read. “You
know who she is.” It was not a question.

He hesitated at first, then said, “She’s Lydia Ashdown.”

“Old name,” she said.

“Old everything.”

Alys shrugged. “Doesn’t mean much down here in Lowside.
You’re sure it’s her?”

The inspector gave her a slow nod. “She’s been missing for
three months now. The parents held out hope that she had just had a rebellious
jaunt out to the marches to visit friends or relatives.” He shook his head.
“Still, the magistrates were given her description. We knew there was a chance we’d
find her like this, but there was always hope. At least until tonight.”

Alys flicked her tongue against her teeth in silent
annoyance. “That doesn’t answer my question, Dax. How do you know this is her?”

“When she was younger, she was playing and fell into the
hearth,” he said. “It left her with a burn scar between her…” He cleared his
throat. “Over her heart area.”

Alys laughed. “So you tore open this poor girl’s bodice for
your salacious gaze? Why Dax, you cad!”

“The mark is distinctive. It looks like a sparrow.”

“A sparrow?” Alys said in disbelief, kneeling down and
opening up the corpse’s shirt. Underneath the clothing, on the stiff, waxy
flesh was a brownish red mark. It sat between her breasts, just over her heart.
To Alys’s surprise, it actually did look quite a bit like a sparrow in flight.
“Amazing. Highside even has prettier scars than we do.”

“This is hardly a laughing matter, Alys. The Ashdowns are
true blooded. They have a direct line to the First Ascended. And their daughter
is dead. In Lowside.”

“Ah,” Alys said. “And there it is. I was wondering what had
prompted the chief magistrate to assign you here, dear Dax. Now, I know. You
true bloods stick together, right? They brought you in to tidy things up and
make sure the Ashdown family is confident that a person of the correct breeding
and background is investigating the death of their poor child.”

His eyes narrowed. “I thought we weren’t making this
personal?” he remarked, an edge in his voice. “Wasn’t that one of the rules?”
He paused and shook his head. “I’m not here to tidy anything up. I am here for
justice. To find who is responsible. It does not matter to me in the slightest
how true hers or anyone’s blood may be. You should know that most of all.” He
looked at her and in his eyes was that familiar look of resolution, but also a
bit of challenge as well.

That was new.

Silently, she cursed him. As ever, he knew all the right
buttons to push. And he was right. Those were the rules. Keep it business. Alys
presented a charming smile to him. “A noble endeavor, Dax. And one I would be
glad to assist you with, but you know that nothing is free, Magistrate
Inspector. Especially down here in Lowside.”

“The city will pay for your assistance. Discretely, of
course.”

“I don’t need coin. I can steal whatever coin I want.” He
remained quiet at that, and she chuckled. “Oh come now, Daxton. Surely it
hasn’t been so long you can’t remember what a girl really wants?”

“I can’t do it. You know I can’t.” But even as he spoke,
Alys saw his eyes move back to the body before them.

The way his attention kept returning to the corpse, the way
his breath came a little faster as she was about to move away. This was a
serious case. A Highside victim, old family nobility, found in Prionside. Dax
was out of his element here and he knew it.

“What do you want to know?” he said at last.

Alys moved in closer and whispered in his ear. “The
appointment for Justicar of the Second District is coming. I want to know who’s
going to get the nod for that post and what leverage the appointers have on
them.”

Dax spun away. “You’re out of your damned mind.”

“Oh, unclench. You know I will be discreet, Dax. I always
am.”

“It hasn’t been fully decided yet,” Dax said through tight
lips.

Alys waggled a finger in front of him. “Stop trying to
avoid it. This is no small endeavor you are asking me to join you on. And
knowing who’s getting tapped should just about cover it. The Second District
Justicar is the law in Lowside.” She paused and smiled at him. “Well, the
king’s law, anyway.”

He did not smile back. If anything, his frown seemed to
intensify. “It’s not you that I don’t trust, Alys. It’s who you’ll sell the
information to.”

“Believe me, Dax. They know the rules too,” she said. “This
is their world. One that they carved out for themselves and built with sweat
and blood. They’re not going to shit on all that.”

Alys met his gaze with her own dark eyes. She saw him break
first, unable to keep from looking at the corpse. Inside, she smiled.

“Fine. I will find out what you want, but I will want results
first.”

“Of course,” she said.

She pressed her hand against her heart and then held it out
to him. He did the same and they clasped forearms, sealing the deal.

“The Ashdowns will want someone to answer for this,” Dax
said. “They will look to the top and think that Blacktide Harry himself is
involved,” he said.

“No chance it’s Harry,” she said.

“He’s still boss in Prionside District, right? The
Stevedore Rats still answer to him?”

“Why Magistrate Inspector! It seems you have been keeping
an ear to the ground in regards to the goings on of the shade folk.”

“It’s his domain,” he said. “And he’s got the reputation
for violence.”

“Oh Harry’s as black-hearted a bastard as you’ll ever meet,
but he has no temper. Everything he does is cold. But even more, this,” she
said, pointing to the body of the young woman, “is bad for business. It’s
public. It shines a light on Prionside. The Blacktide would never do anything
to disrupt business on the docks. Never.”

“Well, then if he is so innocent, he shouldn’t mind the
inconvenience of a few questions, should he?” He fixed her with a look that
slowly evolved into a smile. “You can arrange a meeting, can’t you?”

“You’re wasting time,” Alys said, reaching back and
adjusting the large scythe in its harness, and checking the daggers at her
belt. “But I suppose, if you are set on it, it wouldn’t hurt to pay him a visit
anyway. If you really want to follow this, we’ll need the Blacktide’s blessing
if we’re going to be poking around Prionside.”

With that, she offered him her arm. “Come along, Magistrate
Inspector. It’s late at night, and the streets can be so very dangerous,” she
said, batting her eyes at him. “An escort is ever so important.”

Dax frowned again, but behind his eyes, Alys caught just
the barest hint of amusement. “Then I suppose it is good that I have one,” he
said.