The Hero Strikes Back (24 page)

“And before you even get to that, there's the sacrifice itself. They don't just grab their victims and stake them, you know. There's a ritual to it, and the ritual takes space.”

“Oh.” I'd never thought of that. I'd never really thought of Reanists much at all. I'd studied them in history, at the academy, but that had been about who they were, where they had come from, what they had done, what had happened to them, and a superficial explanation about their beliefs. Like a lot of things I studied, had never expected to come face to face with them. I'd only started worrying about them when my High Landed Source went missing the year before. But I should have figured that a bunch of religious fanatics wouldn't kill their victims with nothing more than the stake through the heart. If they used a stake. That would be really hard. “Do they really stake people?”

“Aye. I think they think metal perverts the body, or something like that.”

“But that would be easy to fight off, I think.” I was trying to visualize it. Unless the victim were asleep or drugged, or tied down, it would be hard to force a stake into the right place in order for it to kill. Though, no matter how it was done, it had to hurt like hell. What a way to go.

“I guess that's what the ritual is for.”

“So what's the ritual? Do you know it?” And did I really want to hear about it? It was bound to be gruesome.

“I've never seen one, but they do tell us about it. So we can recognize it if we come across it.” I found myself wondering about the kinds of things Risa had to know about, had to see. Wouldn't want her job. “For one thing,” she said, “the space has to be properly laid out.” Seeing that I had no intention of drinking my wine, Risa dipped her finger in and drew a square on the table. “There are four points to it, representing the four directions, and the points are supposed to be marked with the four elements.”

“The earth, water, fire and air thing?”

“It makes sense, doesn't it? They're trying to control the world, so the ritual area should represent the elements.”

“Huh.” Didn't seem terribly original to me.

“Now, ideally—from their point of view—there should be enough victims to form a circle within the area, all facing inward.” She drew a circle within the square. “The master of the ritual is supposed to be part of the circle, seated at the northern point, which is represented by fire. The master is the Reanist who called the victims to the circle. The other Reanists are to circle around, outside the circle of the victims but still within the sacrificial area.”

“All right.” Already seemed too complicated.

“Now, it is important that the victims embrace their roles—”

I had to interrupt there. “Embrace being sacrificed?”

“Hey, I didn't make up the rules. I'm just telling you what I've read. And that's what they say. The victims have to be happy to be there.”

“What, do they raid an insane asylum?”

Risa just gave me a look and went on. “The victims get a final meal. Has to be meat of the mountain mammal—”

“Meat of the what?”

She shrugged. “Wine of the new moon.”

“What's that mean?”

“No idea. And essence of bee and bovine.”

“Sounds vile.”

“Apparently the gods would be most offended to have unfed victims. They must be well fed, well groomed, superior in mind and body and talent.”

“Ah. The whole aristocratic myth.” Because, of course, it was a myth. I'd met aristocrats who hadn't been near a bath in months, and had no talent to speak of.

“Apparently so.”

“But then, wouldn't they refuse to eat, if they knew that would keep them from being sacrificed?”

“Maybe they don't know. Or maybe they starve them first.”

Which took us back to the theory of the Reanists needing a place to keep their victims for a while. Especially if they were collecting them in order to make this circle of theirs. “Still, a meal for a starving person isn't going to make them embrace being sacrificed.”

“I don't know. Hunger can make people do strange things.”

Well, for one thing, I remembered, it made them very lethargic. Maybe it made them susceptible to suggestion. But they would have to be awfully susceptible to welcome being sacrificed.

“The kicker though, and the reason why we think the Reanists aren't involved in these disappearances, is that the area must be encased in stone. Apparently the Reanists believe there's some kind of invisible airy substance that leaks from the body as it dies, and it just floats away into the sky. Only stone can contain it, and it must be contained in order for the gods to be able to collect it. That's what they really want, the airy stuff. Not the bodies.”

So then why was it important for the bodies to be well fed and well groomed? Did they think the state of the body affected the quality of the airy stuff? I'd wager the Reanists came up with that for more practical reasons. Who wanted to be around the unwashed?

Try to focus, Lee. “So this isn't a set up they can throw together in an hour and roll up again when it's time to leave.”

“And Reanists can't own property. Not in High Scape, anyway. They can't build something like that here.” Risa frowned at her sketch. “Still, maybe I should look into any new construction going on in the city. Just in case.”

“Wouldn't hurt. Wouldn't be the first time someone's found a way around a law.” Oh, listen to me, the world-weary, experienced one. But hey, I'd read books.

Risa snickered. “Ain't that the truth?” Then she sighed. “It's a horrible time for Crown Prince Gifford to be coming to High Scape. Why in the world doesn't he cancel?”

I raised one finger. “He said he would come.” A second finger. “He wants to show his interest in the most valuable city in the world when it's going through hard times.” A third finger. “He's not about to be run off by a bunch of cowardly murderers. Or kidnappers.”

She scowled. “Aye, aye, aristocratic pride, damn it all to hell. Funny how it never kicks in when someone asks them to work or do anything else useful. But that damned party. Half the aristocrats in the city will be there.”

“So will a whole legion of extra security,” I reminded her. “This is Lord Yellows, remember. The richest man in High Scape. With the Crown Prince as the guest of honor. No one's going to be able to breathe without at least three other people knowing about it.”

“I can't be too sure about that,” Risa muttered. “The Captain offered to have Runners on the property. His Lordship, apparently, was most offended.” The last two words were spoken with an attempt at an aristocratic air. “Gave the Captain quite a dressing down. Reminded him that his family had been providing protection for people on his lands for longer than the Runners have been in existence. Was the Captain daring to presume the people carefully chosen and trained by his Lordship were unable to perform their single purpose? Was the Captain daring to suggest his Lordship would be so treasonous as to endanger the life of the Crown Prince? Perhaps the Captain would be better off concentrating his attention on his own duties and solving the problems that were plaguing the Runners instead of interfering in the business of others.” She scrubbed at the wine sketch, as though attempting to mop it up. “The Captain was fuming. And so much fun to work with for the rest of the day. I hate stupid people.”

I grinned at her. And yes, I was unsympathetic. It was nice to know others were experiencing professional frustrations. Aye, aye, I was petty.

“But we're going to have Runners around the property,” said Risa with satisfaction. “At some places we'll have the house in view. And if one of us accidentally wanders onto the grounds, well, horses can be difficult to control.”

“Isn't that trespassing?” I asked the solicitor's sister.

“Bah! Don't bother me with trifles.”

I chuckled.

The server returned with a drink for Risa. A tall thick glass filled with dark, dark liquid, topped with a creamy beige froth. Risa glared at the server as she set it on the table. “Were you brewing it back there or what?” she demanded.

The server was unapologetic. “Did you want it properly pulled or what?” And she slipped away before Risa could respond.

I looked at the exotic beverage. “What is it?” I asked.

“It's beer.”

I took a closer look. “It doesn't look like any beer I've ever seen.”

“That's because it's a new brew. It's called Roofer's Black. Not many people have heard of it. Plus it's—” She cut herself off and took a reverent sip, giving herself a beige moustache. “Mmmmmm.”

“Plus it's expensive,” I finished for her.

She shot me a hard look and took another long sip.

“So you got that promotion, then?”

She set the glass on the table with a thud that rang of irritation. “No,” she snapped. “Anand did. A very worthy Runner.”

“I see,” I said, and I swore not a hint of disapproval showed up in either my expression or my voice, but Risa found a reason to get angry anyway.

“Shove off, Dunleavy.” A third deep gulp from the glass, with an air of defiance.

“I didn't say anything.”

“You didn't have to. I know what you're thinking.”

“If you know what I'm thinking there's no reason to talk about it.” I didn't want to get into an argument over Risa's spending habits.

“Oh, so you think you should be able to sit there in silence and judge me and I should just shut up about it, is that it?”

I sighed. “Are you spoiling for a fight or something?”

“You haven't got a bloody clue,” was her heated response. “You have no idea what it's like to want things and know you can't afford to have them. Ever I mean, look at this.” She raised her glass. “It's just beer. It happens to be good beer. Why should I have to settle for the watery swill most places serve? Why shouldn't I be able to drink the beer I like? Or wear the clothes I want? Or live where I want to live?”

She'd said all this before, and I sympathized with her. Really. But my sympathy wouldn't keep her out of debtor's prison. “I didn't make the rules, Risa, and I'm not saying they're right or fair. But we still have to live by them.”

“
We
?” she echoed incredulously. “
We
don't have to live by them.
I
do. You don't.” That was uncomfortably true. “It's all right for you to tut-tut my spending habits while you're dining on beef every night. Try earning your pay for a while.”

She didn't mean that the way it sounded. At least, she'd better not. I earned what I had, just not the way most others did.

Noise exploded into my ears, so loud and so sudden I gasped and jerked in my seat, bumping into the table and knocking over the mugs. When I came back down I grabbed the edge of the table and tried to stop my brain from spinning long enough to figure out what the hell had happened.

Drums. Gods be damned evil drums. With pipes. What, was someone marching off to a war somewhere? And if so, could they stop calling to arms and just get moving to wherever they were going? Who played music like that in a tavern? Any moron barkeeper who played such music deserved to have his furniture torn apart.

All right. Had to get out of there. I jumped to my feet again, urged on by the music. I somehow managed to trip over my own chair. I fell against a body.

The body pushed back and I almost lost my footing completely. “Watch where you're going, bitch!”

The music poured through my veins. Without thinking at all I struck out. “Get out of my way!”

Heat exploded along the side of my mouth. I charged, reached out.

I was grabbed from behind, jerked back sharply. Someone was screaming into my ear. I screamed back, with no idea what I was saying. I scrambled against my restraints, scratched at them to no effect.

I screamed again, in outrage, as I was lifted off my feet. I felt air moving, a curious swooping sensation. I kicked out, trying to find some footing, and I couldn't. Nothing I could grab onto would stay still.

One more swoop and then a hard, unpleasant impact. Solidity against the palms of my hands, my cheek, torso, the front of my legs. But the world had stopped moving. That was an improvement.

The din in my head and ears calmed. Just a little, but enough that I could think. Kind of.

“Dunleavy.”

I was lying down. That's it. Lying down. On the street. No, the sidewalk. The wood was hard and rough and dirty against my cheek. Didn't smell too wonderful, either. But it wasn't yet in me to move.

“Dunleavy.”

I closed my eyes, trying to think a bit beyond the obvious.
Hey, you
! I thought at a random note.
Stop moving.

All right, that was weird.

“Dunleavy!”

I supposed I should respond. It was annoying, after all, to hear one's name incessantly repeated. “Aye.”

“What happened?” Risa demanded.

“Hope you don't want details.” Because I couldn't give them. I really had no idea.

“Was that a Shield going berserk?”

Oh. That. I pressed my palms against the sidewalk and carefully pushed myself into a sitting position. “It was indeed.” I could still feel it, the music, in my head, a little, though my ears told me the actual music being played within the tavern had changed into something slower, more soothing.

“I've never seen anything like that before.”

“So happy to contribute to your education.” I felt it was safe to open my eyes. I was indeed sitting on the sidewalk. People walked by and gave me confused looks.