Live Wire, Dead Heart – Patrick Honovich
The woman in the flat below her, the singer, is weeping. Victoria knows this because she's sitting on the sill with the window half-open, and the singer's window isn't far below. The quiet sobs travel easily—the sound of someone who has a much bigger cry bottled up and is trying to let a little out quietly to relieve some of the pressure, heartfelt but half-stifled. Victoria has problems of her own, she's not going to go down to offer comfort. Blackwood, the singer, wouldn't climb the stairs to be consoling if roles were reversed. They might live in the same wing of the manor house, but they're not friends. Even when Baron von Cortanello summons one or the other and they pass in the halls they don't speak, it's a nod at best. So Victoria lets her cry, and tries not to make much noise so Mediera doesn't think she's home.
There's a faint scratch at the door, so someone does. That someone is surely Wesley Fitts, the Baron's money man, who thinks he can come and go as he pleases because he holds the purse and counts the coin. He's been trying, tapping at the door a few times a week, usually at night when a few glasses of the Baron's wine has made it easier to lie to himself, to think he might have a shot. He doesn't. She's told him so, but a few glasses makes him not listen well, either, not even to himself. Victoria doesn't answer, but gets up from her spot and crosses the room to her desk. A flick of the fingers and a little bump of concentration lights the lamp. She sits at the desk and opens the book she's been working on.
Everyone has their role, their niche—in this manor house, in the Baron's employ, in the world at large. Once Victoria Whilkers had thought her role in the world was to puzzle out the secrets of the night sky (along with the rules of reality). She'd always been drawn to heavy clouds, to storms, to wild weather and the dazzling lure of lightning… Being tossed out of the Sage's College hadn't crushed that dream, but six seasons in the service of the Baron, who has absolutely no interest in the greater cosmos and simply wants the prestige of having a sorceress in his employ… the Baron's hard indifference has done the job. He brings her out for parties, like a trained ape on a leash, and demands she do little parlor tricks for his rich and equally indifferent friends, and otherwise he ignores her. She's kept under lock and key, essentially under house arrest—she could ask to go take a turn around the grounds, or to visit a friend, but the request would be curtly denied, and she no longer has any friends. Not any more.
She'd filled three and a half books at the Sage's College, all she has left to remember that time in her life. Three tattered notebooks to remind her of a time when she had hope and the map of her world had no borders. It had been the best time of her life—she hadn't known it at the time, but looking back now, it had been glorious.Right up until the day when one of her experiments went wrong. A botched spell wasn't grounds, the students botched spells left and right, but killing one of her fellows in the process? Master Kidds had offered condolences, apologies, but she'd still been expelled. Going from so much potential and so much promise to a lousy flat in Jearnum and then a lousier flat in riverside Correm… small wonder she doesn't laugh or smile much anymore.
The tapping at the door comes again, so Victoria curses whoever it is, although not loud enough for them to hear. It's late, and she wants to be left alone.
Back to her research. She taps the lapis stone to the page, squinting down at it, and watches little runners of white-blue fire trace out the complex pattern. In a moment, an image rises up off the page—really it's a metal plate, not paper, but the three dozen or so plates are bound into a book, with a worn leather cover, so 'page' feels more apt. She hears footsteps in the hallway, thinks whoever it is has decided to piss off and leave her alone, and mutters a barely-audible “Good.”
After a moment or two more, the image fades. This is as expected, it's how the thing works. She had it smuggled in from Abarre months ago, and she'd thought it connected somehow to her own interests. Victoria wants to tame lightning. So far, while she can feel a connection between the white-blue fire on the page and the lightning that accompanies Correm's many autumn and winter storms, she can't quite prove it.
She picks up the number two tweezers with the locking teeth, clamps them down on a piece of flattened brass, and sets it up so the brass strip is touching the etchings on the metal page. When she touches the lapis stone to trigger it again, she makes sure the stone touches the strip of brass, to test her theory.
With a loud snap a burst of white-blue fire shoots down the strip of brass, through the tweezers, and Victoria's hand flies away, burned and tingling. The strip of brass, now with a discolored mark on it, tumbles to the floor, and she has to put the lapis carefully down on the desk to pick it up because the hand that took the pop is tingling and doesn't want to work. Shaking it out to try to get some feeling back, she turns to the next blank page in her notebook and starts scribbling.
“Interesting…”
Once the off-hand can feel and its fingers can un-lock, she picks up the strip of brass and holds it up to the light for a better look, frowning at the little discolored spot.
There are footsteps in the hallway. Go to bed, leave me alone, it's late. She hopes whoever is out there has some other purpose, that they're here in this wing for someone else. The poet Sean Shanders (not his real name) maybe, who's down a few doors and across the hall. Maybe the Baron is feeling vain or intellectual and wants verse and flattery.
But no. Another tap on the door.
Victoria sighs, her temper rising. She stands, puts away both the metal book and the lapis stone, closes her notebook, then storms to the door, intending to tell off whoever it is so she can get back to her experiments. She yanks open the door midway through another soft knock, takes a deep breath to snarl, and stops.
“All right, what do you--” And the sentence falls, unfinished.
Instead, she blink and take a step back.
“Who in all the known hells are you?”
The man in the hallway is wearing respectable, even fine clothes, and there's no hoop of silver that she can see, but Victoria still steps back. She's lived in Correm long enough that she can usually spot a 'family' man, silver or not, and he has that look. She braces the foot he can't see against the door, in case he tries to shove it open, before telling herself it's foolishness, if he'd wanted to kill her or maim her he probably wouldn't have knocked.
He doesn't answer the question, so his identity will have to remain a mystery.
Instead he asks, “Victoria Whilkers?”
“Y-yes?”
“Got a message for you.”
He holds out a folded sheet of paper with a blue wax seal holding it closed.
She hesitates, then takes it.
When he shows no sign he's going to move, or leave, she asks, “And? Is there anything else?”
She's hoping 'anything else' doesn't include rape and murder, and she's keenly aware that she's unarmed. She has her magics, but magic's hard to pull off when she's rattled and a good sharp knife would be a great deal more comforting.
He nods. Clearly this is an unimportant task to his point of view, since he looks bored. Victoria's pretty sure the bored expression wouldn't leave his face even if he decided to kick down the door and chop her to bits with a hatchet. The hand he can't see curls into a particular position, and she urges it with her will, so that with a soft crackle it begins to give off steam and glitter with frost.
“S'posed to make sure you read it.” He nods at the paper in her hand, points at it with one thick finger.
“Oh. Yes. Well.”
She keeps her eyes on him, and the motion is a bit awkward, but she works her pinkie nail under the seal, prying it off. The off-hand, with a little cloud around it, drips snowflakes onto the floor. She glances at the paper, looks back at him, then quickly reads it over. There's not much on it: an address, a street she's seen but never crossed, and a flat number. Looks like it's on the second floor.
Once she's read it over, he clears his throat. “S'posed to tell you, tomorrow, at noon.”
“Noon for what? Am I supposed to go there? Why? For whom?”
“It's in your best interests to show up is all I can tell you. Don't know much more'n that.”
“But--”
He shrugs, gives her an entirely ironic short bow, tips an imaginary hat, turns, and leaves. She shuts the door and checks the lock twice before she sits back down at the desk, and almost ends up with ice in her hair as she goes to run her fingers through it. With a frown and another small curse, she lets the spell go, and stays up for hours more as she tries to figure out what to do. Does she go? It's not a wise move to turn down the Guild, but it's not a great idea to get tangled up with their business, either, so…
2.
“Well?”
Adajanni's got plans, so he's tending to this one personally, but he's tired of waiting and well past being bored. He's the head of the Correm Guild, so he's dressed nicely but not too nicely, and he fidgets with one of the inside pockets of his coat, turning over a bent copper piece he'll need for later. He's eager to get his hands on the contents of the trunk, which he'll need for later, too.
Lenny Crinn, bent in front of the locked trunk seems to feel no sense of urgency, and ordinarily that'd be a compelling reason to have him killed. He still might, to keep the thing neat, and Pretios is at his side so the threat is right there out in the open, but the locks-man still doesn't speed up his business. Not a bit.
“I asked you--”
The man lifts his head, turns a little. “I heard you, y'r honor. But this is a delicate job. Just sit tight a bit longer, I'll have her open.”
As if it's reassuring the man, all knees and elbows, gives the top of the trunk a little thump.
Adajanni's not sure what he's supposed to take from the explanation, or the gesture, but Lenny is one of the best lock men in Correm, if not the whole kingdom. His reputation and history of excellent work are keeping him alive—not that Lenny seems to know it. To understand that his life is at stake, Mr. Crinn would have to pay attention to the other men in the room, and he hasn't looked up from the lock since he started to work on it.
Adajanni picks up his cup of now-cold tea, and drinks half of it, looking at the men around the room. Pretios, to his left, is standing at what for him is attention—his eyes cold and flat, his feet shoulder-width apart, his murderer's hands ready at his sides. Adajanni doesn't have to worry about him. Aside from Pretios and Lenny, there are two others—Adajanni's lieutenant Comal and his body man Bellat. Comal is there to make a report and go, and Bellat never leaves his side. Adajanni turns, gestures for Comal to continue.
“I, uh, like I was saying,” Comal licks his lips, glances at the door as if to make sure it's locked. It's an ingrained habit, especially for a man who came up from the streets, but here it's a useless one. The only other living soul on this floor is the man at the stairs, Just Henry, who doesn't have more than a copper piece or two worth of sense in his big thick skull and likes guarding things. Just Henry's Guild name is Iusti, somewhat slangy Old Imperial for 'justice', and since he's never admitted to a last name, Just Henry is all he'll answer to, all anyone calls him. Just Henry surely isn't clever enough to try anything.
“Like I was sayin',” says Comal. “I gotta head down to the harbor, there's a ship coming in I wanna 'inspect.' Y'know, make sure they're paid up and that the bill of lading is all in order. My civic duty.”
Carlyle—Comal—never stops scheming, and almost never passes up a chance to steal something. He's a good lieutenant, greedy and paranoid, sure, but too afraid of what Adajanni will do to him to be anything but completely loyal. He can't be trusted but he can be trusted to act in his nature, and Adajanni never runs out of things to send him to do. Right now he's just an extra man in the room, and Adajanni doesn't particularly want him around once Lenny gets the lock open. No sense in providing temptation.
“Do it,” he says. “Stop at the house on Tanneger Street on your way back to riverside.”
“Oh?” asks Comal.
Adajanni nods. “There's a package to pick up. Drop it off at riverside before you head anywhere else.”
Comal gives a quick nod. “Sure thing.” To his man, he says, “C'mon.”
The pair leaves.
Adajanni watches Lenny's back, bent over to finesse and finagle the lock, until he hears a click and the smaller man stands, dusting off his hands on the thighs of his pants.
“Well, yep, that's about all I can do.”
Adajanni shifts a little to look past him at the trunk, which still isn't open, then fixes Lenny with a withering stare. “ 'All you can do' ?”
“Look, look, wait, see--” Lenny raises his hands as if to ward off a blow. He half-turns, points to the face of the trunk where the hasp of the outer lock is open and handing down. “I got everything else outta the way, it's all open, see?”
Lenny reaches with long thin fingers to lift the catch a little, as if it isn't clear that it's unlocked. Then he indicates the tiny slot behind the lock.
“This'n I can't do nothing with. It's not a normal lock. It's magic, see? It's magic, I can't--”
Adajanni raises a hand and Lenny stops talking at once.
“I see. Your work is done here. You may go. Do I need to send my man here--” He indicates Pretios. “To make sure you leave the building?”
Lenny goes pale—well, more pale, he had little color in his cheeks to begin with.
“No no no no no, it's fine, that's fine. I can—just let me gather up my things and I'm gone.”
Lenny collects his tools, slipping the picks and rakes and other assorted metal oddments into a leather wallet, then switching them around again so they're in the right places. After a few deft movements to get everything turned the right way, so nothing gets bent, he rolls up and tucks away. With a fearful backwards glance at Pretios, he rushes out, and Adajanni listens to his footsteps as he hurries down the hall. Lenny exchanges a few words with Just Henry, at the stairwell, and hurries down the stairs, leaving Adajanni and Pretios alone in the room. Pretios, at a nod, goes to the door and shuts it, then twists the lock.
Adajanni crosses to the window, peers out, and doesn't entirely like what he sees. It's snowing again, thick fat flakes that swirl in the air and tink-tink-tink-tink their tiny impacts like light-drunk moths against the thick panes of the window, and there—yes, thunder, too. Correm isn't the only city in the Empire that gets the combination of snowfall and thunderstorm, and he's safe and semi-warm inside but he still doesn't like it. The air is getting colder, and if the snow turns to sleet he'll have to get out in it after he's done here.
The best stone man in the family, with the full understanding that he'd be tortured to death over a matter of days and dumped in the river if he screwed it up, had taken the ring recovered from the ruined and Risen-infested basement excavation, and carefully removed the gem. It had been bound in silver, bracketed upside down, and fashioned into a small sort of key. Adajanni has the key in his pocket, and he's itching to use it, but the opal that has the tiny lines and ridges on the back side is delicate, fragile even, and there's no sure way to tell if the trunk doesn't have some sort of lurking enchantment that'll blow his hand or his head off. So he steps back, returns to his seat on the edge of the desk Whether she comes under her own power or ends up dragged in by her neck, that half-failed sorceress will be here soon. There are a few others, in Correm and the surroundings, but she's the one with the clearest hook, the one he's deemed easiest to manipulate, so Adajanni hopes she comes quickly and quietly and doesn't need her arm broken.
3.
“Victoria?”
She's on the roof, working on another experiment, and she waves him off. Wesley, the money man, always seems to be the one sent to find her—she thinks he must spend half his day lurking in the corner of the room or listening at doors, and for what?
“Victoria, there's--”
He takes a couple steps, eyes down, arms out for balance, careful with his footing. She's down on a flat section but the roof where the stairs come out is sloped and Wesley's clumsy. Maybe he'll slip and go over the edge. Slim hope, but at least then she won't have to listen to his voice.
She checks the three pots again. It's the next step, or at least one of the next steps. The pots are full of salt, with glyphs painted on the outside—she's not sure if it will contain the lightning, when it hits, but it's a better-than-average chance and you don't find out anything useful without a bit of risk. The rest of the roof around them is stone—expensive slate shingles on some sort of heavy frame, she thinks iron underneath it all. It should work out. And it's a good storm, she can already feel the crackle in the air. She doesn't want to waste it. The three rods sticking out of the tops of the pots (iron, copper, brass) should draw the storm's attention. The plan is to see, if the pots get hit (and she hopes they do), which metal ends up most scorched. More research.
“Victoria, I really--”
She knows it's Wesley by the voice, and she turns to tell him off, then stops. Wesley is there, sure, but behind him is a stranger: rough clothes, heavy arms, tree trunk of a neck, pock-scarred face, and… a blade?
“Wes, what's going on?”
“This fellow here wants to have a word and I thiiiink you should--”
The stranger with the knife gives Wesley a little push. As he does she sees a glint of silver. He's a 'family' man. A Guild man.
“What's this about?”
The Guild man gives Wesley another shove, and the money man slips, arms flailing like he's trying to take flight. His legs shoot out from under him, and he screams as he goes down, sliding fast for the wrong edge of the roof. If she doesn't do something, he'll go over, and it's a good drop. Might kill him, and while she's fantasized about him dying or disappearing forever on more than a few occasions, she still has a conscience and can't just watch it happen.
“Dammit, Wesley.” Victoria might not have her Master's Ring, she didn't graduate, but the knowledge is still there. She spits out the words grudgingly, but they still work, the power still answers. She gets the pop in her ears and the feeling like she really needs to crack her neck.
Wesley's motion isn't abated, it doesn't work like that, but he's scooped up, tumbling and swearing, back over the roof. She's not feeling well disposed towards either of them, so she redirects the fall, flips the direction around, and sends him flying at the Guild man. The Guild man has to drop the knife to get out of the way, but it's too much to hope for that he'll just give it up and leave her be.
Victoria lifts herself with a few of the borrowed traces of Wesley's motion, for effect, and with a quick glance at the pots (which seem to be in order) she floats gracefully through the air to land beside him as he gets up.
“You got an appointment, lady. My friend don't like to be kept waiting. Told me t'tell you, you don't show up he'll send somebody else, somebody meaner. So c'mon lady, be nice.”
“You're talking to the wrong girl, buddy.” She doesn't believe in killing the messenger, so she helps him up.
He gives her an appraising look, nods at whatever he sees. “Then I guess if I tell you the name James Sicarrochio, of Sibal, you're the wrong girl like you say, it won't mean anything?”
Victoria's bundled up against the cold, it's mid-winter in Correm and she's quite fond of her fingers and toes, but the cold fear that seeps into her bones doesn't give a damn about a scarf, or a hat, or a heavy coat.
“What did you say?”
“James. Sicarrochio. Mouthful of a name. I'd have shortened it, me. You don't want anything to happen to 'im, anything nasty-like, you come with me and see my friend.”
“James left me.” It's a faint defense, she knows, but she has to put up some resistance. “Why does your 'family' think I'll--”
“C'mon, lady, they don't pay me to debate.”
He gets a grip on her upper arm, but she jerks it away.
“No, I don't think so. I want an explanation! I'm not going--”
“A little help?” Wesley is still prone, and now he raises a hand to see if either the Guild man or Victoria will pull him to his feet. Victoria considers leaving him there to freeze for being melodramatic, but the Guild man swears a little, looks around as if he doesn't want to be seen doing it, and drags Wes up. Wesley tries to put weight on his right ankle, winces, sucks in a breath through clenched teeth, and starts to hobble for the door to the roof.
“No, it's fine, I can make it on my own…”
They both ignore him.
The Guild man turns, his expression pleading. “Look, lady, my friend is not someone you disappoint or keep waiting. If I don't bring you to him, not only will he probably toss me in a cell or horsewhip me or something, he'll just send somebody worse to come get you and he'll be in a meaner mood when you're brought in. I don't wanna be out in this--” He waves to indicate the steely sky and the thick-falling snow. “--any longer than I have to. So come on. The sooner we take you to him, the sooner we can both go back to doing what we'd rather be doing.”
“All right.” She's glad for the wind whipping everything around and throwing snow by the handfuls—it makes her voice sound a little less defeated. “But you tell whoever you've got in Sibal to leave James out of this. Whatever 'this' is.”
The Guild man snorts, shakes his head. “Nobody has to go to Sibal to mess up your boy. We got him right here. Now c'mon, let's get off this roof.”
The clouds rumble and crash overhead—she doesn't see lightning yet, but she has high hopes. Assuming the Guild doesn't do her some crippling injury or drag her off to some other town, she should get good results from the experiment whenever she can return home.
They pass two chamber maids and the Baron's butler Martin to get to the street, where a coach and team are waiting. The horse's manes are already clumping with ice, ears flicking against the falling snow.
“Take me to him, this friend of yours. And make it quick, I have other things to do.”
The man climbs in beside her, and thumps the side of his fist against the ceiling to tell the bundled-up driver to get moving. If the Guild sent the message of two days ago, and it was clear they had, she didn't have much choice, protestations notwithstanding. Didn't mean she had to like it.
4.
Victoria bristles. “I swear by Trym's bloody hands, if you shove me one more time, I'm going to set you on fire.”
The Guild man shrugs, doesn't look intimidated or impressed. “Way I look at it, you probably ain't got the juice for that, otherwise you woulda done something by now.” He gives her another prod, reaches for her elbow, presumably to steer her up the stairs, and she jerks her arm away.
“Anyway,” he continues. “I been set on fire. Ain't so bad if you can put it out quick enough.”
“Don't think I won't.” The truth of the matter is, she might have the power but she doesn't have the will. Some folks, proper Masters of the Sage's College, they might, but she's having a hard time focusing, and if she can't focus she certainly can't burn anyone. She went far enough in her studies, but concentration, acting in the moment, was where she'd struggled.
So up the stairs it is. When they pass a shifty-looking castoff on the third floor, the man who's been pushing and prodding slows his step to exchange a few words, then returns to her side and escorts her down the hallway. He knocks 3-2-1 on a nondescript door, and it opens. He gives her a last push, and steps back. It doesn't look like he has any intention of following her in, and she takes it as a blessing, tries to get her head back in order.
There'a man with the most heartless, cold, dead eyes she's every seen, standing by the door. He shuts it after she's in, then locks it. She's afraid to even look at him, she's heard the stories about the monsters the Guild keeps, and she has no doubts he's a killer, so she takes a few steps to the side. The other man, leaning against the desk, looks more civilized, but as he speaks she doesn't trust appearances, either, and assumes his hands are just as dirty.
Adajanni gives her a smile. “Miss Whilkers. Glad you could make it. I have work for you.”
She scowls. “And if I tell you go piss in a bucket and wear it as a hat?”
He keeps smiling, and shakes his head. “That would be disappointing. And when I get disappointed my friend here, he's very compassionate, he doesn't like to see my feelings hurt, he takes it badly. Your man Mr. Sicarrochio would not enjoy what my friend would do to work those bad feelings out.” He glances at the man with the flat expression and the dead eyes. “I'd rather be civil about it. Can we be civil?”
Civil? She frowns. Why do these men seem to think James means that much to her? She hasn't seen or spoken to him in months, and the bastard was the one who broke it off in the first place. He'd said he didn't want to be 'entangled' (at the time she did) and then he'd done a damned good job disappearing, so does she really owe him anything? Well, it's all tangled-up now, and she'd like to be cold and detached but she isn't.
Hoping they're just using the name to scare her, hoping they don't actually have him stowed away somewhere, she gives Adajanni a thoughtful, searching look, but she can't tell much.
“How do I know you even have him, anyway? Even if it meant something to me, which I'm not sure it does, how do I know you don't just know the right name to use?”
Adajanni comes out of his slouch, makes a motion to his man (for a moment she's sure she's going to be murdered) and says, “I'll give you proof. Walk with me, and I'll explain my offer.”
His tone of voice makes it clear it isn't a request. Victoria's heart drops. She'd been hoping (praying, although she wouldn't admit it even to herself) that it was a bluff. It still might be, but 'proof' sounds ominous and she has little hope it won't be something nasty, either way. A glance at the expressionless man tells her it's not a good idea to run or refuse, so she makes a little noise and follows Adajanni out into the hall. The man turns and locks the door after, then Adajanni gestures for her to go ahead. His man falls in on one side, and Adajanni takes a few quick steps to walk on the other.
“It's not a complicated request at all, Miss Whilkers.” His tone is light, easy, the kind of voice that invites confidences and always seems to know more than it lets on.
She can't think of anything sharp or clever to say, so all she says is, “Oh?”
“In a way, all I need is your eye, your particular expertise. You saw the chest in that room?”
She hadn't, but she doesn't want to admit it. “Y-yes?”
“Well—just a moment.” They've reached the end of the hallway, and he exchanges a few words with Just Henry. She catches 'Kill anyone who--' and doesn't need to hear the rest.
He turns his attention back. “Well, I need what's in the chest, but it's old and probably rigged to do something nasty. The key is tricky and delicate, too, so I need you to check it, and to open it for me.”
“But I'm not--” She pauses. “You think it's charmed, or warded, or something?”
Adajanni gives her a nod, and a completely unnecessary, “Precisely.”
She half-expects to be led down to the cellar but Adajanni and the nameless man go up, to the fourth floor. She briefly thinks, What's with these men and rooftops? If they drag her to the roof, she can jump, float down to the street, and maybe get away—but she has a feeling they'll be able to find her again and she has a decent thing going in the Baron's employ that she doesn't want to screw up. She's surprised when they turn down another hallway and walk her to an unmarked door with two disreputable-looking types standing guard.
Adajanni lets himself in, and the nameless man gives her a little nudge to suggest she should follow. Victoria is afraid of what she'll see, but she steps inside anyway.
One more Guild man is keeping watch, and she'd expected it but it's still a shock to see James, tied up in a kitchen chair. He's got a welt on one cheek that looks like it will blossom out into a spectacular bruise (if he lives long enough for that) and there's dried blood from nose to lip to chin.
“Listen, I just want to get out of here, buddy, I--” He stops talking to the man guarding him as Adajanni walks in, then looks astonished as she steps out from behind the one with the dead eyes to get a better look.
“Vicks? What are you doing here?” He turns to Adajanni, utterly confused. “What's this all about?”
He asks, she knows, because he can't comprehend that he might be there because of her or because of anything she's done—there' no way, to James, that she could be that important. Prick.
She turns to Adajanni. “All right, so you've got him. Why is that anything to me?”
“Look, whatever I did, leave her out of it--” James starts to argue, starts to protest, but the man tending to him backhands him across the face, and he stops, gasping and spitting blood. When he raises his head again, it's to give Adajanni and his pet monster a scared look. He doesn't look her way. He's still so arrogant he thinks he's been tied up because of something he's done or failed to do, he hasn't put it together yet.
“Send her away, tell me what you want me to--” James tries again, but the guard belts him again, tells him to shut it, and he falls silent.
Adajanni's voice is satin, practiced and polished. “I don't think you'd like it very much if some terrible harm was done to him.”
“We broke up. He left me. Why should I care?”
“Your relationship, or lack thereof, doesn't matter to me. But I'm more than willing to bet you don't want him to get murdered because you're simply feeling stubborn. You look like you think you're a good person, and good people don't usually just stand by, not if it's all right in front of them.” What he doesn't say, what he doesn't necessarily need to say, is that it'd be an inconvenience to find another Sage's College washout, and she gets it. She's alive, right now, because he doesn't want to be bothered with cleaning up. It's a chilling thought. She is replaceable, there are at least two others in town that she knows about, so she's walking a very fine line indeed. Too much resistance and he'll decide the inconvenience outweighs her stubbornness. Her mouth dries out and it becomes hard to swallow.
Some flicker of understanding registers with James.
“Wait a minute, this is her fault? Vicks, you--”
Another belt across the face and James shuts his mouth again, but the way he stares at her speaks plenty—she's willing to bet, if he could, James would be trying to hit her, or maybe going for a knife. He'd never raised a hand to her during their brief 'entanglement', but he had the look, he was the type. What did she ever see in him? Besides the eyes, and the cheekbones, and yeah he had good hair, what was it, really?
“So?” Adajanni prods.
Still she hesitates.
Adajanni nods to the man beside the chair, and ignoring James' jerking around and his shouting, the guard drags the chair across the floor on its back legs. When he gets to the window he leans chair and James against the wall to one side while he unlatches it, and opens it wide. Snow that's just on the edge of turning into sleet or hail immediately starts blowing in, and the little slopes on either side of the frame where it's collected on the sill fall in with a fhtump. James' protesting goes from a shout to a scream, and instead of hurling abuse at the man doing the work, he starts pleading with Adajanni. As he's hauled in front of the now-open window his offers and attempts to bribe or bargain get more and more outlandish, until he's hysterical, promising the sun and the stars if they'll only let him go. Once he'd promised the sun and stars to her, too, so Victoria's face goes stiff, impassive.
Adajanni ignores him, asking again, “So?”
“I don't see how--” she begins, and the man at the window gets another nod. She wonders if it matters, if he'd have been given the nod regardless of what she says. Maybe he's been told to move for anything but 'yes' or 'all right'. Adajanni's body-man, the one with the dead eyes, he goes to the window and helps hoist the chair up, so that with the back legs on the sill, the chair and the screaming James both lean out into the empty space as the snow continues to blow in. Behind the screaming she can hear the little plinks and clatters as the incoming sleet hits the frame and the floor.
“It's a simple request.” Adajanni's calm and casual, and it's pretty clear loss of life doesn't factor in. The rational side of her mind says, even odds he might just kill her and find someone else to do it, she has a pretty good idea who he'd go scoop up. She summons her will, makes a few furtive motions with the hand hanging loose at her side, and gives him another searching look. She's hoping for some trace of decency. It isn't there, not even a hint.
“You want me to—what? To check that trunk? Why don't you just have one of your boys do it? If it kills them, you've got others. Seems like there's something you're not telling me.”
Another nod, and the man holding the chair leans James out a little more, a hair short of the tipping point, so that he's staring down at the iced-over street below. He's screaming for help, but there aren't any people out in the weather to hear, and even if there were, this is Correm. They'd most likely keep their heads down, keep their eyes averted, and pick up their steps to hurry away from the scene.
“I need your expertise, Miss Whilkers. I fully expect there to be some enchantment at work, and it is crucial that whatever trick is there, that it doesn't ruin the contents. You will, of course, be paid for your time.”
She's stalling, sweat rolling down her neck, still trying to finish the spell, so she asks, “Paid, huh? How much?”
“I would think a few crowns are in order. Say, five. If you cooperate right now, we'll let him live. That should be worth a touch to you, too.”
James continues to scream and beg, and he's weeping now so he probably has snot freezing on his face, she can't see but the picture is clear in her mind. She frowns, still trying to get the spell off, and says, “Five, huh? Let me think about it.”
Adajanni sighs, straightens up, and nods to his man at the window. Who lets go of the rope.
James, screaming, plummets face first, straight towards the snowy cobbles of the street.
“All right! All right!” She finishes the spell, a touch too late, only catches part of him as she fans one arm towards the open window, so his scream is cut short with a heavy thud. She rushes over, looks down.
He's still moving, so she's pretty sure James is alive. Enough of the spell got enough of a piece of him to slow him down. Looks like a broken leg, if not two, but he's stirring his arms feebly in the ropes and the wreckage of the kitchen chair. She can hear his sobs and his complaining, even over the wind and sleet. Now that there's no doubt left, since clearly it's cooperate or die, she turns back to Adajanni.
“Let's go work on that chest so I can get out of here.”
Adajanni smiles. “Come along, then.”
His man falls into step beside her as they head back into the hall, then to the stairs.
She wants to ask the dead-eyed man if he has a name, or the capacity to speak, but she's also pretty sure she won't like the answers, so shivering in her coat she keeps quiet and just follows. Someone will pick up James, and if not, she can do it herself, put him in a coach, send him to a Healer on the way out. Thunder rumbles, she can feel the stairs of the building tremble, and she thinks of the pots on the roof, back at the manor. The weather should stay bad enough. Pity about James but he was the one who acted a fool.
An hour, maybe more, maybe two. Her first sniff tells her the man is right, there's a trap. Then she looks again. And again. By the time she's uncovered a fourth safeguard, the room has warmed up enough—mingled breath, body heat—for her to loosen her collar. Another hour and she steps back, to look at Adajanni.
“Got any wine? I mean wine it's safe for me to drink? You poison me, you don't get into this chest, so I'm hoping you're not so short-sighted--”
Adajanni's hands leave the lip of the desk he's leaning against. He comes fully to his feet, presses palms together before his face with the fingertips pointing toward the ceiling. Another place, another man, it might look like prayer. This place, this man, it looks like he's choosing his words carefully and discarding the first few things that come to mind. She's acutely conscious that if she doesn't give him the right answer to whatever he says next… Another flip comment and it might be the last thing she ever says.
Adajanni nods at the chest, and says, “Well? Tell me.”
“Well, I--” She looks at the chest as if it might answer for her. Adajanni's blank-faced man hardly looks her way, hardly seems to be paying attention to anything, but she gets the feeling he can cross the intervening space before she can run or scream.
The words come out, tumbling over each other, and she fights off the urge to wring her hands by putting them behind her back. “Well, I—I—I—there's at least four layers you have to peel back, and those are all over the place. Some will ruin whatever's in the chest—which I'm fairly sure you don't want—and some will just, uh, ruin whoever's trying to get the thing open. That's for starters. Then there's the contents.”
“The… contents?” Adajanni's left eyebrow goes up. He gives his raised hands a twist, so they're briefly clasping each other, then lowers his arms as he returns to his spot against the desk.
Victoria's not a big fan of close quarters, so when the expressionless one takes a few steps closer she scowls to hide the shiver. He's easily within reach, although his face stays blank and he makes no hostile move. She tries to hold her ground, but her legs take a step back, the traitors. Still the words tumble.
“Well, well, the contents, I don't know exactly what you've got in there but there's two items that are not—that give off—that are magic, some kind of magic, I'm—I'm not entirely sure what, won't know until I get it open, of course, but--”
She looks at Adajanni, then his man. The goon with the chair left hours ago. “And if it's fine with you, I'm thirsty, so if you can send someone for a drink…”
Adajanni laughs. He leans to his man.
“Pretios.”
Is is the man's name? Or alias, really? Or is it a code that means 'kill the girl'?
The cold dead eyes raise, and for a moment she's sure she's dead, and the thought that rushes to the forefront isn't some exhortation, or a good round of swearing, or even a 'Why me?' She thinks, instead, Who's going to check on my pots?
Pretios walks to the door, opens it, and (without taking his eyes off her) waves to someone in the hall. She hears rushing feet. A head peeks in.
Adajanni speaks without looking away from her. “Bring up a bottle—not a threepenny bottle, Henry, make it a one and four, you get me?”
The man at the door does, and rushes away.
Adajanni raises an eyebrow. “The contents?”
Somehow this courteous attention feels even worse. The window's shut but she can hear the sleet rattling against the glass. She shivers.
“There's something about whatever's inside. Gives off a heat. I'll have to see when I get there. I can't tell from outside.”
“How long?”
“What? Well, well I--” Victoria takes a deep breath. She thinks it over. She looks down, looks back up when Pretios enters her peripheral vision. Best guess? Factoring in that she hasn't been this off-balance since, well… ever. Her ego says two hours. Her heart says three. Her reason gives the answer:
“Four hours.”
The man sticks his head in, offers two bottles. Adjanni rejects one, and takes the other. The way his hands get the cork out, the way it's so crisp and practiced, she has a guess he came up through the ranks the hard way. Like at some point he was more like the chair man, or Henry, like before this he'd known his way around a cheap bottle of wine.
He offers the bottle. “I'll give you three.”
She nods, and takes a few long pulls. It's not great but she had worse in the pubs in Latidium when she was still a student. Victoria goes to work.
Three hours, three glasses, and one threatening inquiry later, Victoria stands up. She turns to Adajanni.
“Let's see that fragile key again?”
She holds out her hand, and she's in a studying frame of mind, all business now, but she's also trying unsuccessfully to calculate the odds—will they just kill her once she flips the last lock? Pretios hasn't moved, and Adajanni's expression is calm, composed, unruffled. If he's eager to get the thing open, or excited, he doesn't show it. He gives Pretios a nod, and a wave, and Pretios checks the window, then goes to stand by the closed door. She's not sure what it means.
“I've done—I've done what you asked. I don't see any reason for you to--” She stops, afraid to put it into words.
Adajanni smiles, gestures to the chest. “You've done good work so far. It's my hope that it continues.”
He takes a small box out of one of the pockets of his coat, looks down at it, doesn't immediately hand it over.
“Miss Whilkers.”
“Y-yes?” She thinks, Here it comes. I'm dead. I'm dead! I'm--
“I've unfortunately had to kill half a dozen people to recover this and have it re-set into a usable key. If you break it, I will make sure it takes you days and days and days to die.”
She nods, reaches for it, and he moves reluctantly but does place the small box into her hand. As she opens it, she's afraid to breathe. She glances at the door (shut and locked) and the window (shut at least, can't see the latch) and she thinks, If I can make it to the window I can magic my way out of the fall. Probably. Then she carefully lifts out the item: a filigreed silver key with a little sliver of flat gemstone at the end instead of teeth. It hardly weighs anything resting on her palm, and she closes her fingers around it so she doesn't drop it, but doesn't dare squeeze. Victoria turns back to the chest, kneels again in front of it. She double-checks her wards and spells, then checks them all over again a third time.
When she fits the grooved sliver into the last lock, something astonishing happens: with a crackle, a little lick of blue-white flickers out and scorches her fingers. It's unexpected, but she keeps a steady hand on the key because it's also familiar. It's the same jolt, the same feeling from the Abarre books and the lapis stone. It's the same crackle and numbness and locked-up muscles from her research. What in the world?
Victoria looks back at Adajanni, and behind him Pretios—the dead-eyed man waits like a suspended sentence, or a gibbet with a dangling empty noose. Adajanni makes some small half-formed sound, and motions for her to go ahead. Victoria turns to the lock and the chest again.
Almost there… almost… she doesn't trust her hand to turn the key, so she uses her mind, her magic, with a frown and (she's unaware of it) the tip of her tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth. Gently, gently, she fits the key further in, ever-so gently she turns it, applying no more pressure than a faint breeze. Tick by agonizing tick the key rotates, vibrating ever so slightly as the sweat rolls down her temples and neck. She gives it a tiny nudge, then another…
With a clack that makes her heart lurch, a sound she's sure is the key breaking and signaling her imminent doom, it's done. She stands up, steps back. With the mental equivalent of a flick of the wrist, she opens the lid, and sets at least four rather complicated spells in motion to retrieve the contents. A little blood runs from nose to upper lip, and her head pounds when she sniffs it back, her vision temporarily overrun with little sparks and fragments of light. She directs everything from the chest to float through the air and settle neatly on the desk. Half a dozen people killed? She's not at all sure the contents are worth so much loss of life, but then, life doesn't mean much in Correm so maybe.
Two pouches, one about the size of two fists held together, and one about half that. Three very dusty tattered books. A dagger that may or may not be charmed. And a smaller box, looks like a strongbox. The little box isn't locked, just latched with a clasp.
“Safe to touch?” asks Adajanni, looking at the things, not at her.
“Give me another moment, it will be. If there's any wine left…” He gives her a sharp look so she trails off.
It won't do at all to screw it up here at the end, so (even though it makes both head and heart throb) she runs through another series—nothing reacts until she gets to the little strongbox. That one crackles, and she sees bonds of blue-white fire curl around it like fingers, like a cage, but she gets it open and raises up on tiptoes to look over Adajanni's shoulder as he bends over the desk.
The two pouches, she thinks, hold coin or currency. The books, maybe records—they aren't magical. The dagger has a light charm to help it hold its edge, hardly anything. But the strongbox, it seethes with magic. The box itself, and the contents, which appear to be a half-dozen pewter spheres.
Adajanni reaches, then withdraws his hand.
“Take them out of the box.”
It seems like a bad idea, but it also doesn't seem like she has a choice. Her hands shake as she steps forward. Pretios is behind and to one side so she prays she isn't about to be murdered. She checks again, lifts the orbs out, one by one, placing them on the desk.
“What are these things?”
She's not sure they'll tell her, but she deeply wants to know. She has a hunch it's somehow related to her research, and can't figure out the how or why. Her course of study isn't exactly common knowledge, and she doubts anyone outside the Sage's College has any clue what she's up to, but something tells her there's a connection, and without instructors, instinct and guesswork is what she has to rely on.
He turns to Pretios, gives him a sign, and the body-man produces a small hand-mirror.
“As far as I can tell, if all my digging is correct—and it had better be—they're a magical tool. Pick one up.”
“Is it going to kill me? Or are you going to kill me for touching it?”
He shrugs. “I doubt either, but anything's possible.”
With a sweaty hand she reaches to pick one of the orbs up. Of course it's not that easy. She yelps as the thing surges with energy—the blue-white fire envelops it, then her hand, and runs up her arm. All the muscles from fingertips to shoulder jerk, go numb, then lock up. Her ears ring. Her jaw clacks shut, and with her hand still clutching the pewter orb she topples over, rigid, flat on her back on the dusty floor.
She sees embers in a field of grey, then her vision clears and her muscles relax. Pretios gets a hand under each armpit (his touch is surprisingly gentle, for a murderer) and hauls her up, back to her feet. She uncurls her aching fingers, looks down at the pewter orb, and sees that it now has a blue-white dot glowing up at her, like the iris of some arcane metal eye.
“You gonna live long enough to explain?” asks Adajanni. Beside him his pet monster shifts, tense and awaiting orders, until the head man gives him a wave to step back.
She fights to get her jaw open, and he looks impatient but also a little surprised, like he had a good guess what the orbs would do but he's not sure if she's confirmed or denied it. “They see, somehow, right?”
Adajanni nods. “That's the hope.” He looks more relieved than the comment warrants.
He separates out one of the books, and nudges the box towards the edge of the desk. “That's what you get to find out.”
For a moment she's speechless. Yes, it seems like it connects to her research, and yes she does want to know, but…
“You mean I'm not done?”
“Done for today, Miss. But we're not done with you.”
“But I don't--”
Adajanni gives her another deadly glance. “Unless you think you're being treated unfairly?”
Pretios is right behind her, so she shakes her head.
“No, I—But I—I need to rest, and I'll need my tools, and--”
“Put it back in the box, if you please.” Adajanni holds open the lid.
She drops the orb back with the others. Pewter against pewter makes a soft clank.
“I was supposed to get paid?” Her voice comes out small and pathetic, she hates the sound of it but she's weak and tired and desperate to get home.
Adajanni gives her another smile. This one doesn't look genuine, either. “And so you shall be.”
He takes a small handful of crowns out of a pouch at his belt, a fortune to anyone who doesn't have fine things, or land, or a title. He counts out five, puts the rest back, and offers them.
“Four crowns is your pay. The fifth crown is for your silence. You ken me? You were never here. You never spoke to me—you've never seen me in your life. You get it?”
She takes the coin, and nods.
“We'll send you home, and I'll have you picked up day after tomorrow to start figuring these things out. You try to leave town, you're dead. You go to the Watch, you suffer for as long as I can drag it out and then you're equally dead. You talk to anyone, including anyone in that manor house you live in, you're dead. The Baron who pays for your parlor tricks doesn't get to know diddly.”
“But what do I tell him? I”m sure he'll want to know--”
Adajanni raises a hand and she stops. He doesn't need to answer, the raised hand confirms that it's her problem to figure out.
“Then, I… how do I work on these things? I need my tools, and a lot of them are too bulky or sensitive to move.”
He picks up the book, and forces it into her hands.
“First thing you do, you read this cover to cover. Then, day after tomorrow, you expect visitors. Pretios here and one other. And you better have a good idea where to start by then, or I'll throw a noose around your neck and drop you out a window. Which might take your head off completely.”
She raises her hands as if to ward off such a fate, takes a step back. “Ah, no, no, no, that won't be necessary, I'll--”
Adajanni nods toward the door. The man who'd brought the wine earlier is waiting.
“Go.”
Victoria is hurried downstairs and out to the street where the winter storm is still raging. The sky is almost black, and the sleet pummels everything, stinging face and hands, rattling off the coach and coachman waiting by the front door. She stops at the bottom step, and looks back, to see if anyone is visible in the upstairs window, but there's nobody there and the angle of what little weak light is left in the sky makes the panes of glass an opaque steely gray. James has either been sent away in a coach of his own or dragged himself away under his own power—either way he isn't there, so he might have just been killed, she can't say. She sees a little blood on the cobblestones, before she's shoved into the coach and carried away.
As the coach slips and slides, careening through the mostly-empty streets, she holds the book close to her chest, thinking, As soon as this lets up, I need to go check on my pots. Moreso now, since it seems like this is somehow connected… When she gets back to her room, the singer downstairs is practicing, running through a set of sad songs, and she sounds like she'll be crying again soon. It's irritating, on a day when her nerves have already been worried to tatters, and she has half a mind to go downstairs and slap her, but no. Research calls. Victoria is already trying to come up with a good way to test her theory about the connection between the metal plates and the pewter orbs, and now that imminent death isn't standing right beside her, she's beginning to analyze and come up with guesses. With luck no one else will come bother her and she can get started on the new tome.
Pat Honovich
has been gleefully making stuff up for as long as he or anyone else can remember. His first novel, Thirst, was published in 2013. His work has appeared or is appearing in Silver Blade Magazine, The Ansible, Bewildering Stories, Bards and Sages Quarterly, and the anthologies Magic We've Forgotten and Dark as Life. He lives in southern central Illinois, where he enjoys encouraging other people's bad habits, small-town life, and cooking nice meals for his wife.