Scourge Page 21

  “It’s bad for trade,” Machison continued. “Merchants won’t come to the harbor if armed mobs are on the loose.”

  “They’re hardly likely to come if there are azrikk, either.”

  Machison glared at him. “We don’t dare allow vigilantes to get it into their heads that they can disobey the law. And we need to make certain we keep the commoners frightened enough to control them without pushing them into rebellion.”

  Hiring more guards and raising Guild fees was, obviously, a smokescreen. Blackholt’s blood magic summoned the monsters and determined their targets, and the Lord Mayor’s soldiers targeted the men who disappeared from the street. Yet the ruse with the Guilds was necessary to deflect suspicion and retain the fiction that the guards existed to protect the people.

  Machison cursed. “The Guild Masters care about nothing except their profits. It’s to the survivors’ advantage if the creatures kill off a few members—drives the prices up.”

  “The Merchant Princes don’t care about the toll the Balance requires so long as there’s someone to get the work done and the goods for export ship on time. If there are a few less tradespeople, it’s not their problem.”

  “But it’s our problem if mobs run wild in the streets. The hunters need to be stopped.”

  Jorgeson’s smile was cold. “Would you like to help interrogate the three hunters we captured last night?”

  “I’ll be happy to join you. We need to make an example of them.”

  THE LORD MAYOR steeled himself for the descent into the cold, stinking depths. Few prisoners left the dungeons for any destination except the gallows. Stories about lawbreakers who entered the dungeons and were never seen again were not uncommon—and not exaggerated.

  “These are the hunters,” Jorgeson said, stepping aside so Machison had a better view.

  Three young men slumped against the bonds that secured them to their chairs. Blood stained their torn clothing and seeped from fresh wounds. Swollen eyes, battered faces, and fresh bruises showed that they had already undergone a thorough interrogation.

  “Have they confessed? Have they given up their comrades?” Machison asked.

  Jorgeson shook his head. “Confessed? Their guilt was apparent. But they’ve told us nothing about the other hunters.”

  “Do we know their names? Are they members of Guilds?”

  “Go to the Pit.” The prisoner on the left stared at Machison with a look of contempt. His head snapped to one side as the guard backhanded him. His broken nose, split lip, and eyes swollen nearly shut suggested that this was not his first impertinent comment. “That’s the Lord Mayor yer speakin’ to!”

  “I know who he is,” the hunter slurred. Blood flecked his lips. “We pay our taxes. We deserve better than being food for monsters.” The guard struck him again, but the man’s glare was undiminished.

  “That one is Bant, from the tanners in Skinton,” Jorgeson said. “The man in the center is Pav, nephew to the head weaver in Wrighton. The last one is Jott, a carpenter. Also from Wrighton.”

  Pav hung forward against the ropes, unconscious. His chest hitched raggedly as he strained for breath. Blood covered half his face and stained his tunic a deep crimson. Next to him, equally battered, Jott remained conscious, though blood ran from his ears and mouth.

  “What do their Guilds have to say?” Machison asked.

  “Their Guilds disavow them,” Jorgeson replied. “We’re free to deal with them as we see fit.”

  Machison walked down the row, eyeing the prisoners. He stopped in front of Jott. “Are there more hunters?”

  “No.”

  The Lord Mayor chuckled. “Three men against the monsters?”

  “It’s more than your guards can manage,” Jott said through swollen lips. The guard behind him cuffed him so hard that the prisoner swayed as if he might pass out.

  “They’re of no use if they can’t talk!” Machison reprimanded. He turned to Jorgeson. “How many other hunters are there?”

  Jorgeson shrugged. “Hard to say. It’s likely the groups work separately. Safer that way.”

  “We need to break them,” Machison said, eyeing the prisoners. “It shouldn’t take much. Perhaps I should assist. When we’re done, we’ll hang them or put them in gibbets. As a warning.”

  “M’lord,” Jorgeson said, pulling Machison aside. “I would be careful in the manner of their punishment. There is strong support for the men, especially since the attacks have increased in frequency.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “Only a few guards know we found the archer who shot at your carriage,” Jorgeson whispered. “They’re sworn to secrecy. Blame the hunters. Charge them with treason, not monster-hunting. Claim that they were found attempting to assassinate the Crown Prince and ambassadors.”

  “You didn’t arrest them anywhere near the ambassadors, did you?”

  Jorgeson shook his head. “No. But we don’t need trouble with the Guilds—or with the tradespeople.”

  Machison glowered in frustration. “The Guilds. Look how quickly they dropped these men. I’m not worried about them.”

  Jorgeson frowned. “The Guild Masters are famously good at politics. What they say isn’t usually what they think.”

  “Agreed. But disavowing the prisoners waives the Guilds’ right to object to their trial and sentencing.”

  “What good would it do them to object? It wouldn’t change the outcome.” Jorgeson held up a hand to forestall Machison’s protest. “Just a warning, m’lord. They may prefer quiet revenge to loud protest.”

  “Unfortunately too true. Well, let’s see what we can get from these men,” Machison replied, returning to the prisoners. “Has the fire been stoked?”

  “Yes m’lord, it should be ready,” the guard replied.

  Machison looked through the assortment of tools and selected the longest iron tongs before carefully working them into the hottest coals.

  “Let’s start with the tanner. He seems a little bit full of himself. Strip him and hang him by his wrists. Just high enough that his toes still touch the floor.”

  “You can’t—” Bant’s words were cut off when the guard shoved a rag into his mouth.

  Machison pulled the glowing red tongs from the fire and smiled. “Oh, yes, I can.”

  The blood curdling scream echoed from the stone walls, despite the gag.

  “Sorry m’lord, he appears to have passed out,” the guard said after Machison had worked on the prisoner for a while.

  “No matter. He’ll wake soon and we’ll keep the iron hot for him. He might be more willing to talk now that we’ve softened him up. String up the other one, let’s see if we can whittle away some of that carpenter’s pride. Unless of course you’d like to share some names?” Machison turned to Jott as he picked up and handled the knives, making sure the carpenter could see each one.

  “You can rot!”

  “Let’s see how you feel once I start carving. Or maybe you’d prefer I begin with your teeth?” Machison held up a pair of iron pliers. “You don’t need all of them to talk.”

  The screams continued to echo in the dungeon for quite some time before Machison grew bored. “Finish them,” he said, handing the bloody pliers back to Joregeson. “I don’t think we’re going to get anything from these men, and there isn’t enough of them left to provide any real challenge.”

  “As you wish, m’lord,” Jorgeson replied.

  The Lord Mayor returned to his rooms to clean up and change into fresh robes, before slipping outside. Night had fallen, and he glanced around himself as he left the palace, trusting that the bodyguards behind him would follow.

  The cool air cleared his head, even as his questions multiplied. He headed toward the Avenue of Temples. The white marble paving stones and temple walls glowed in the moonlight, seeming to shimmer in the otherworldly light. This was a place of gods and spirits, and mortals entered at their own risk.

  Down the street, toward the temples of Oj and Ren, was the gra
nd edifice to Toloth, patron god of the Lord Mayors of Ravenwood, and all of the Mayor’s staff and household. Normally, Machison made his appearance in Toloth’s temple only for the great holidays and the high feast days, when he brought offerings or food and flowers to lay before the sacred fire. But tonight Machison wanted answers of a kind he might only find here.

  The Guild gods’ palatial temples lined the street, one for each of the trades. Ravenwood’s Guilds and their members had paid tribute to their patron gods for generations, but not forever. A century, perhaps more, marked the rise of the new gods, each overseeing a particular skill or profession. Long enough to feel as if they had always been there, a fiction the Guilds promoted.

  Custom demanded offerings and honor be given to the Guild gods, and the city obliged. But in the small hours of the night, when hope was scarce and needs were great, it was to the temples of the Old Gods that people came.

  At the far end of the avenue from the opulent temples to the High God and Goddess were the oldest buildings on the street. These were the temples of the Elder Gods, who formed the world from chaos and presided over birth and death, sickness and health, famine and plenty. Ardevan and Eshtamon, Colduraan and Balledec. Oj and Ren, and Doharmu the god of the grave. They had owned the devotion of men long before the upstart gods made themselves known. And it was to these primal, primitive beings that the common people still poured out their offerings and prayers.

  The temples to the Elder Gods were modest by comparison with the massive structures the Guilds built to their patron deities. The old temples had been stained by time and weather, floors worn smooth by the steps of penitents, and they were smaller, more intimate, from a time when gods were said to walk among the people of Ravenwood.

  Machison passed the old temples with disdain, intent on Toloth’s far more impressive structure. When he reached the doorway, he felt his heart race and his mouth went dry. He motioned for his bodyguards to remain outside, and climbed the steps. While he privately doubted that the gods actually dwelled in these garish temples, he had no difficulty believing that something lingered in this place. Two torches burned within, providing just enough light for Machison to make out the vast statue of Toloth.

  “Why have you come?” The voice was raspy with age and echoed from the shadows.

  “I need your Sight,” Machison replied. “I will make a generous offering.” The only mages that would acquiesce to serving the Lord Mayor or the ruling powers—other than healers, who went where they were needed—were blood witches. The others hid themselves, pledged their service to the gods, fled the city-state, or died for their refusal. Machison did not doubt the power of blood magic, but he did doubt the truthfulness and loyalty of its practitioners, which left him seeking the counsel of an old woman whose service to a young god might be no more than a sign of madness.

  He sensed, rather than saw, movement in the dark. “I am curious,” the dry voice said. “Why do you seek me now?”

  Machison dared move further into the temple. The flickering torchlight played tricks on his eyes, bringing the shadows to life. “There’s much at stake, and much unknown. I want to know what you see.”

  “You are uncertain.” The voice was more hiss than whisper.

  “Perhaps. These are fearsome times. I need to know, will Ravenwood succeed in bettering the terms with Garenoth? Or merely retain the advantage we already hold?”

  Machison heard sandaled feet on stone. “Leave your tribute between the torches,” the oracle commanded. “And we will see what we will see.”

  Machison withdrew a pouch of silver coins from his waistcoat and laid them out at the feet of the statue of Toloth. He bowed his head, a litany of questions, rather than prayers, running through his mind. Opportunities are already starting to present themselves for after the treaty is finalized. A few of the other city-states have accepted that Ravenwood’s current position—or stronger—will be the reality, and they’ve made overtures. That’s just the beginning. The others will fall in line, or risk being left behind. Aliyev and Gorog will reward me. But have I done enough to secure the trade negotiations succeeds? What of the hunters? Can we get them under control before they cause problems? And what of the Wanderer woman in my dreams? How do I ensure my safety from a vision?

  When he stood, he saw the oracle silhouetted by the torchlight. “Come.”

  Machison walked into the shadows, hoping he appeared more confident than he felt. He followed the woman to a fountain filling a deep obsidian basin. The water glistened in the darkness, black and depthless.

  “Ask.”

  “Are my dreams certainties, or just possibilities?”

  The oracle dipped a long, bony finger into the black water and watched the ripples. “Difficult to say.” Her voice was dry as a winter wind through old leaves. “Some of the things you have dreamed are nearly upon you, almost impossible to deflect. Consequences, of actions long past. Others are yet a ways off. There may yet be time to change the course.”

  “The agreement with Garenoth—will we succeed in bettering the terms?”

  Again the oracle stirred the waters. “Uncertain.” The hooded head rose, and the face within was lost in the shadows. “You have not asked the one question you truly wish answered.”

  Machison hesitated. “Will the assassins strike again? Am I in danger?”

  This time, the oracle peered into the dark waters for longer. Machison stared at the ripples, catching glimpses of images that were there and gone. “You have more to fear from the voices of the dead than the hands of the living,” the oracle replied. “I see a drowning man in a rising tide. The rest is veiled, closed to me.”

  Not much to go on for the price I paid . How dare she try to frighten me! She’s angling for more coin, or perhaps she’s in Kadar’s employ, with orders to weaken my nerve.

  But if the end is still uncertain, as she says, then I can still come out on top. No outcome is yet fixed. I must be more careful, and more ruthless than ever.

  I’ll have Jorgeson watch the oracle, see who she’s beholden to, and then we’ll take care of her. Let her think she’s rattled me. The situation with Garenoth is coming together as planned. I was unwise to want validation from the likes of her. Next time, I’ll know to keep my own counsel.

  “Thank you, m’lady,” Machison said, forcing his tone to be gracious. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.” He turned to leave.

  “A Wanderer will be the death of you.”

  Machison froze. “Can you see the means? The time? Anything?”

  “Go. Fate will find you.”

  THREE CANDLEMARKS LATER, after Machison was safely back in his sitting room, calming his nerves with a glass of whiskey, Jorgeson knocked on his door.

  “M’lord. We have finished with the prisoners.” Jorgeson’s uniform was splattered with blood, and his jaw was set.

  “And? Did they give up anything more?”

  “No, m’lord. The weaver never regained consciousness. The tanner cursed us until his last breath, when we broke what was left of him on the rack. But he told us nothing of value.”

  “And the carpenter?”

  “He said nothing of the hunters—he was hard to understand, after you’d finished with him—but we believe he swore to find a way to avenge his friends. He bled out rather quickly.”

  “I hope you saved the blood for the witches. And what of the bodies?” Machison asked.

  “They’ll all hang in gibbets as traitors tomorrow, and the captain of the guards will denounce their crimes against Ravenwood.”

  “Very well. Tell me when it’s done. Levy a fine on the Guilds the traitors belonged to. And come up with a plan to get rid of those damned Wanderers. Make it a priority.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “GUARDS! RUN!” CORRAN yelled. Behind them, flames rose and the air smelled of smoke and burning meat. They’d gone after an azrikk, and the creature would haunt his dreams for the rest of his life.

  Damn guards couldn’t be bothered
to fight the monsters, but set one little fire—

  Corran, Mir, and Trent ran. Corran’s boots pounded on the cobblestones. Adrenaline pumped through his veins, and his lungs burned. Shouts sounded behind them, and running footsteps echoed as the guards caught their trail.

  Gods, is this how Rigan felt the night Wil died? Corran fought down panic. Mir was in the lead; he knew these streets best. Corran and Trent kept pace as their fellow hunter zigged and zagged through the ginnels. When the guards were far enough behind them to be out of sight, he pointed skyward, hauled himself up onto a balcony, and began climbing a drainpipe, heading toward the roof. Corran was the last up the pipe, and flipped over onto the rooftop just as the soldiers came into view below.

  The three hunters lay flat, not daring to breathe or move. There’s no reason for them to look up, Corran told himself. The alley goes on.

  Please don’t look up. He let out a silent sigh as the footsteps pounded past. Minutes crept by while they remained motionless, waiting. Mir dragged himself to the edge and looked over, then nodded.

  In the distance, Corran could see the guttering flames and plumes of smoke drifting in the wind. That was close. Too close. They made their way across Wrighton using the rooftops, crouched low. When they finally reached the room they used for training, Corran realized his hands were shaking. Calfon and Ross were waiting for them.

  Calfon shrugged out of his padded jacket and wiped the soot from his face with a rag. “Where are the others?”

  “Probably hiding,” Trent replied.

  “You’d better all get home,” Calfon said, dragging a hand through his hair. “Things should have died down outside. I’ll wait for the rest of them here.”

  Corran and the others protested, but Calfon sent them away. Corran let himself through the back door into the workshop as the clock in the tower rang third bells, and leaned against the doorframe, ready to collapse.