The Stringer (3 page)

Ketterly shrugged again, regaining some of his bluster now that it seemed unlikely Mags was going to hit him on the head or Mr. Landry was going to spring up and start singing and dancing or something. “Do?
Shit
, dump the body. Bring it back to the old lady; it's hers, right? Or call your
gasam
, kid. Kick this up the chain of command.”

I looked at the body. My education hadn't progressed very far, but I knew that demons, once trapped in something by a skilled
saganustari
or
enustari
, didn't just disappear. They had to be released. Which meant that when my knockout spell faded, old Mr. Landry would be back on his feet, terrifying the commuters of the world.

The thought of contacting Hiram made me feel sick. Or maybe that was the blood loss. But Ketterly was useless, I knew that. He was a lazy, small-time mage who scraped by just like the rest of us. We needed someone with real knowledge, real connections. That wasn't Hiram, either, really, but the fat old bastard was at least
adjacent
to real magic.

I looked at Ketterly. “Fine. But we bled. You owe us fifty each.”

WE HAD A
hundred bucks, but we walked to Hiram's. Carrying a corpse onto the subway would strain my little spell, and I didn't have the gas for anything else, which left out a Charm to get a free ride from someone. Other
ustari
with less conscience might have bled someone else to get the job done. But me and Mags, we didn't bleed anyone except ourselves. It was how we kept from drowning in the sewers we swam in, but it was exhausting.

I kept a fresh wound on my hand to fuel the cloaking spell; between the blood loss and the walk, I was dizzy and unsteady, but I was eager to unload the body—specifically, the demon within—on someone else and start working on turning Ketterly's hundred dollars into a slightly larger pile of money. It was getting cold, and the idea of spooning Mags on the street during the winter nights was unappealing.

Hiram's townhouse was a block away from Prospect Park, a crumbling little place that gave every impression he'd lived there since it had been built, that perhaps it had even been built around him, like a pyramid around a pharaoh. The block was sleepy, and Hiram kept his house Warded so the occasional explosion or scream emanating from his rooms wouldn't cause any unnecessary worry.

The Wards also meant that the moment Mags and I climbed the stairs, he knew we were there. The front door opened when we were halfway up, and Hiram emerged, hair as white as his crisp dress shirt, red suspenders straining against his round belly, beard perfectly groomed, as always.

“Masters Vonnegan and Mageshkumar,” he boomed, slipping his thumbs under his suspenders and rocking on his heels. “As you are here, by definition you are in trouble, so I am excited to hear your tale of new woe and how I might assist you with no hope of compensation.” Raising his eyebrows, he snapped his suspenders back against his chest. “Also, you have brought me a corpse. How thoughtful.”

I swallowed bile and forced myself to be polite. When I'd actively been Hiram's apprentice he'd been a miserable pain in the ass, telling me how stupid I was, perpetually unhappy with my memory, my comportment, my choice of vocabulary. When he'd grudgingly admitted I had a talent for the Words, he followed it up with a lengthy complaint about my pronunciation. And when I'd refused to bleed the shivering, terrified girl, her sneakers drawn up with pink marker, a twenty-dollar bill folded neatly and secured in the pocket of her torn jeans, Hiram had yelled at me for three straight days before kicking me out onto the street, assigning Mags to me as an additional punishment.

“Not a corpse, old man,” I said. “An
Udug
named Balahul.”

Hiram raised one snowy eyebrow. “I see your penchant for disaster has remained as strong as ever, Mr. Vonnegan. And you have brought me an incredibly dangerous bound intelligence because . . . ?”

The inflection was familiar: I had thirty seconds, give or take, before Hiram exploded into a rage, possibly raining down bolts of lightning or turning me into a small lizard. I pulled out my cigarettes and lit one to put some smoke between us.

“It tried to kill a few people in the subway yesterday,” I said, rushing to get in the explanation before he blew up. “It didn't give a shit about being seen, and it seemed to be enjoying itself. I knocked it out, but it's going to wake up eventually.”

“And this is my problem why, Mr. Vonnegan?” Hiram shouted, leaning forward, his face flushing. “You refuse my counsel, my training, and my hospitality, yet you always return for my
assistance
. Which perhaps might indicate that you need my tutelage, yes?”

“Hiram,” I said. “I just need help getting rid of the demon, okay? Or we can leave it sitting on your steps and walk the fuck away.” I exhaled smoke, head swimming. “Your choice, old man.”

He seethed at me for a moment, teeth bared, then settled back and looked at Mags and the old man.

“Balahul,” he said softly. He took a deep breath. “Very well. You'd best bring it inside. You're not the first person to bring me an animated corpse this evening.”

3.

WE PUT MR. LANDRY
in Hiram's bathroom, which, as always, smelled of disinfectant and bleach and gleamed with the sort of dull, over-scrubbed cleanliness that implied no one actually used it.

As someone who had spent several hours every week for years on his hands and knees scrubbing it, I knew it intimately. It was small. The window stuck and often took a few Words and a pricked finger to open. The old claw-foot tub was perfectly white, but the finish had worn off, making it dull. The tiled floor was white and black octagonal shapes in a simple pattern, some cracked, the grout yellowed.

There was, as Hiram had promised, already a body in there, a skinny black kid, jeans and a black hoodie, red sneakers. I stared at the tub, doom crowding in on me like I'd seen this before, a body in a tub, and it had killed me in some other life. Mags laid Landry gently on the floor, and we stepped back into the hall. I closed the bathroom door, casting a quick Ward on it in case our new friend Balahul woke up in a frisky mood. Slicing through the skein of white scars on my hand hurt as much as the first time, every time.

“Mr. Mageshkumar,” Hiram called. “The kitchen, please. I've made you a sandwich.”

Mags pushed past me, grinning. I'd often contemplated my eventual death via trampling by Mags in some sort of lunch-related incident. I followed, feeling hollow and unsteady and feverish.

Hiram's kitchen was as white and pure as I recalled. Like the bathroom, it gave no sign of having ever been used for anything more complex than tea. On the small table was a white plate with a large sandwich on it: brown bread, a thick wedge of ham, and some green and red layers that might have been vegetables if I'd seen vegetables recently enough to recognize them.

“Mr. Vonnegan.”

I turned, and Hiram beckoned me out of the kitchen. I followed him into his study down the hall, crowded with stolen trinkets displayed on shelves, furnished in a way that implied Hiram was actually a very old woman. When he turned to face me, I realized he was furious; I recognized his fighting posture, like that of a small, fat rooster about to lean in and peck you.

“You have a
duty of care
to that boy,” he hissed. “Do you really
believe
you are fulfilling that duty?
Look
at him!”

I blinked. Hiram had been so happy to pawn Mags off on me, it had never occurred to me that the old thief might care what happened to him.

Hiram shook his head and deflated a little. “You cannot go on living like this. That boy has complete faith in you, the simpleton. If not for me, for him, bleed others. Bleed
anyone
. But living like this, bleeding yourselves and getting by on short confidence games, you are slowly killing him—and yourself.”

Suddenly,
I
was angry. I put a finger in Hiram's chest. “
You
were only too fucking happy to get rid of Pitr, asshole,” I said. “
You
gave him to me like a puppy that soiled the fucking carpet. This while you were in the process of kicking me out of your fucking shithole of an apartment—”

Hiram slapped my hand away and opened his mouth, but in that moment there was a cleared throat from behind him, and he stopped, closing his mouth and turning away gruffly.

A man was sitting comfortably in one of Hiram's deep leather chairs, a tumbler of something in his hand. He was thin and old, older than anyone else I knew. He wore a black suit that looked like he'd been born wearing it, perfectly cut. His hair was white and his hands had the swollen look of arthritis and hard use. He sat with an ease that belied confidence, absolute and settled. His face was deeply lined. For an old man, he looked spry. And because I'd come to have an eye for these things, I could tell immediately that I was in the presence of power.
Saganustari
at minimum.
Enustari
, maybe. An Archmage.

I looked at Hiram, trying to see if I'd missed something. Hiram was a low-rent hustler. Not someone I would have expected to have high-powered mages lounging in his living room. But there was nothing new: He was still Hiram Bosch, fat old man who stole everything he happened to notice, a man who'd funded his whole life by bleeding and stealing, petty thefts and grifts. The man I was still apprenticed to.

Hiram sighed, thrusting his hands in his trouser pockets. “Lem Vonnegan, my
urtuku
,” he said, gesturing at me. “Mr. Vonnegan, Evelyn Fallon.”

The old man and I looked at each other. Fallon's eyes were pale and faded but seemed to pin me where I stood. I had the impression that I wouldn't be able to move as long as he was studying me. When he looked away, I sensed that Evelyn Fallon had just thought about me as much as he ever would.

“You got an
Udug
, too, huh?” I said.

Fallon glanced at me again and ran his eyes up and down. “This Word, you know what it means?”

I forced a smile and nodded. “I got me an education.”

He sniffed. “No, Mr. Vonnegan, I do not
got
an
Udug
. Neither do you. We have
arad
.”

I blinked. I knew more than most:
Arad
meant
slave
or
puppet
.

Fallon picked up his glass. “The crude and uneducated refer to them as Stringers. We haven't seen any in a very long time.”

I walked over to Hiram's small bar, picked up a decanter of bourbon, and poured myself a drink, waiting for Hiram's sudden howl of rage, but when I turned back, the fat man was just watching me. I put one hand in my pocket and tried to look smarter than I was.

“How do you know, Mr. Fallon?” I asked.

Fallon smirked. “I have been too much out of society,” he said, the barest hint of an angular accent in his words. “Too much time spent on custom orders. No one knows me anymore.”

“Our Mr. Fallon is an accomplished Fabricator,” Hiram said, face impassive. “
Enustari
, soaked in the blood of innocents, far too smart to associate with the likes of us.”

A Fabricator. Building devices imbued with magic or a demonic intelligence. They were rare enough. Finding one to apprentice with was like discovering an oil well in your backyard, and I started plotting. My
gasam
, the ever-angry and bitterly disappointed Hiram, was here. I might be able to negotiate a transfer of the bond if I could convince Fallon to take me on. Assuming he would be willing to feed and water Mags as a condition.

“Your Master does not like me, Mr. Vonnegan,” Fallon said, not sounding even slightly concerned. “Tell me, has he taught you all his thieving tricks, the
mu
and Cantrips that bring a cascade of tarnished nickels and dimes into his bottomless pockets?”

“If you ask nicely,” Hiram said heatedly, “Mr. Fallon will teach you about murdering people by the thousands for
research
.”

This was new; Hiram had no compunction about bleeding people. It was true that he generally paid, cajoled, or bullied people into consent before bleeding them—I could still picture the sweaty twenty-dollar bill he'd given the girl, all of fourteen and shivering and terrified—but I wasn't sure it made much difference when you were stealing something irreplaceable from idiots who didn't know better. Because no one outside of our order understood it, there was no way they could give anything resembling consent. If Fallon had crossed some sort of line that Hiram regarded as sacred, we were in wild and unmapped territory.

Mages at Fallon's level were dangerous.
Enustari
bled the world for their spells, epic complex rituals that required dozens of people to bleed—or a few people to bleed to death.
Enustari
and the next level down,
saganustari
,
engineered disasters and mass suicides, spawned death cults and started wars to harvest the blood. I eyed Fallon: He wore the hell out of the suit and he sat with immense confidence, his hands powerful and deft, a builder's hands. A Fabricator. But he didn't have any Bleeders, and a mage without Bleeders—well, it came down to the spells you had memorized, how good you were with the Words.

I had a feeling Fallon was
very
good with them.

“Why are you here, Mr. Vonnegan?” Fallon asked, putting those flat, pale eyes on me.

I swallowed. “I need help.”

He nodded. “Indeed.
I
am here because your
gasam
, as is his habit, has stolen something that is now required.”

Hiram snorted. “
Required
,” he muttered, shaking his head.

Fallon glanced at him, then back at me, and I wished fervently that he would look anywhere else. “Your stupid, boorish
gasam
, who trades in tricks and trivialities to fuel his base and unremarkable appetites—this ridiculous man you
chose
to be your teacher—does not grasp the severity of our situation. For you are correct, Mr. Vonnegan:
Arad
do
not
inhabit living things. They can inhabit only the dead, animating them as puppets. And this they can do only via assignment.”

I stared at him. He sighed. “They must be placed within a vessel by
ustari
. Someone has done this. More than once. Is still doing this. Sowing chaos. Your man, what was he doing?”

“Pushing people in front of a train.”

Fallon nodded as if this fit some secret category of behavior. “Mine was stabbing people in the park with a screwdriver,” he said. “There are many more, and they are all engaged in random violence. There is no plan, no escape route, no elegance to it. They are rabid intelligences given form and let off their leash.”

This was so far above my level of experience, I was going to get a nosebleed. It was time to bow out and get back to figuring out how to retire on one hundred dollars. Before I could vocalize my exit strategy and leave this mess to the
enustari
of the world, however, there was a sudden commotion from the direction of the bathroom.

Fallon raised one eyebrow a precise amount that he must have practiced in a mirror, assigning a specific reaction to each millimeter. “Our guests have shrugged off their magical bonds,” he said. “Shall we ask them a few questions?”

The old man was on his feet, taller than I'd expected, graceful and slender. His suit, I saw from up close, was worth more than every single piece of clothing I'd ever owned in my life combined. Fucking
enustari
. Nice work, if you weren't bothered by the oceans of blood you had to shed to get there. Still, the fact that Fallon didn't have any Bleeders was a confounding mystery.

The thin man strode confidently from the room, and I followed, Hiram sauntering after me, hands still in the pockets of his shapeless trousers. The noise from the bathroom had risen to the level of pretty serious; they were both up and tearing the place apart. The sound of running water flowed under everything else like a silver thread. Hiram had a mess on his hands, and I was comforted by the fact that I wasn't solely to blame.

Fallon paused outside the door and turned to us. “We will—”

The bathroom door exploded outward in a spray of splinters, the young black guy hurtling through and slamming into the wall beyond with bone-shattering force. He straightened up and staggered, shaking his head, while Mr. Landry, looking really,
really
worse for the wear, leaped into the hallway behind him.

Mags skidded into place next to me, grabbing hold of my arm. We looked at each other for a split second.

“
Balahul!
” Landry shouted, sounding exultant.

Fallon whirled, one hand diving into his jacket pocket as Hiram, Mags, and I produced our blades; Hiram was an old scrapper, and his left arm was crisscrossed with white and pink scars just like mine. Hiram had taught me how to hold the blade, how to gauge the necessary pressure, how to avoid tendons, and how to select the right vessel. As we slashed our forearms in sync, Fallon produced a small wooden box from his pocket that looked about as dangerous as a thumbtack. You didn't meet many Fabricators, and now I knew why: They'd all been eaten by
Udug
while playing with their toys. I could sense gas in the air from the bleeds Hiram and I had going. I ran through the combat spells I knew, the fragments that might be combined into something weaponized, but before I could speak, Fallon held the box in his palm, reached with his other hand, and opened the lid.

A soft, sweet note emanated from within, louder than should have been possible. It was a beautiful sound, a constant clear tone that made me pause in surprise and wonder. It burst forth without variation, perfect and steady. It was the most gorgeous noise I'd ever heard.

Landry and the black kid began screaming.

They collapsed to their knees and covered their ears, howling and squirming. The black kid moved his hands and appeared to be making an attempt to jam his fingers deep enough in his ears to burst an eardrum.

I looked at Fallon, and he glanced at me. “Always prepared, yes?” he said, the hint of a smile kinking the deep lines of his face. “With preparation, Mr. Vonnegan, one does not need to bleed quite so often. This is a lesson your
gasam
can learn as well. Also, not to steal every fucking thing he lays eyes on.”

I wasn't used to bleeding and not casting, my wound left to sizzle and ooze, but I let it go. You never knew when a little gas would come in handy.

“Thank you for the lesson, my lord,” Hiram groused. “See what happens when you leave your fortress and enter the world?”

Fallon clucked his tongue. “My peers have made it clear they
prefer
me in my
fortress
, making trinkets.”

The note made their voices sound beautiful, even angelic. Our prisoners, however, continued to screech and writhe on the floor. Without warning, the kid leaped up and launched himself forward, screaming. Mags moved immediately, leaping up to intercept him as I spoke the first spell that came to mind, three Words. The kid froze, his limbs going stiff in a comical pose in midair—and so did Mags, caught in the spell along with him. As Mags crashed into the far wall, the kid's forward momentum carried him crashing into Fallon, and the box hit the floor hard, smashing into pieces, the note cutting off immediately.