Shadow's Son (14 page)

Or he could do both.

The target reached an intersection and vanished around a corner.

Levictus put his knife away and reached into his robe. From a pocket
in the lining he took out a small object and placed it on the rooftop. The
bead gleamed black and glossy in the morning light like a pebble of polished obsidian. Warmth pulsed within its ebon depths. He knelt beside
the egg and whispered in soft, lilting tones. Tendrils of smoke rose from
the bead as its surface dulled. With a pop, it cracked down the center and
an inky stain emerged, a tiny serpent as long as his forefinger. Speaking
softly, he gave the creature its instructions. It listened, and then disappeared into a chink between two roof shingles.

Levictus straightened and stepped into the lee of an arched gable. As
he entered the shadow's embrace, plans formed in his head. Death would
reign over this city before he was done, a scourging storm to wash away
all the wickedness and iniquity. For a brief moment, he considered his
loyalty to Vassili, but then reminded himself that he was a dead man. He
had died on the day he was dragged into hell by the foot soldiers of the
True Church. And dead men held no allegiances.

A whisper on the wind left the rooftop vacant save for smears of blood
and the headless carcasses of a dozen pigeons.

osey giggled as her nanny crept past the pantry closet. She put her
eye to the crack between the door and the jamb and ignored the
demands that she present herself immediately. Hide-and-seek was one of
her favorite games, and this big new house was the perfect place to play.
It had even more nooks and shadowy corners than the hedge maze of their
last home. She could hide for
days
if she wanted.

She was six years old, but Father still left her in the nanny's custody
while he attended to business. She didn't know what business was, but it
took up a great deal of his time these days, something she was decidedly
not happy about. She was used to being the center of his world, his little
princess, and anything that took Father away from Josey made her
obscenely jealous.

While the nanny went calling into the next room, she snuck out from
her hiding spot. She wanted to find a better one, someplace no one could
ever find her. In her stocking feet she ran through the cavernous kitchen
with its high tables and racks of cast-iron pots, down a wide hall, and
around the corner. After several more turnings she found herself in a part
of the house she had not yet encountered. Overjoyed at the prospect of
exploring new territory, she forgot her game and wandered the long, windowless corridor. Tall wooden doors, their bronze latches dark with age,
refused her entry, so she kept going. At the turning of another corner, she
looked back. A line of footprints trailed behind her, a clear path she could
follow back whenever she wanted.

The hall ended in a shallow niche, its blank walls encased in wooden
paneling. A rusty hook for hanging a picture jutted above her reach. Josey
crouched in the niche. It was too exposed for a good hiding spot.
Dejected, she started to get up when a twinkle of light caught her eye. She bent down and found a crack near the floor. She would have missed it
if not for the yellow glow filling the narrow gap. She wriggled her fingers
into the crack and grinned when a section of the wall swung out like a
narrow door. Deep steps of bare rock descended into the tunnel beyond,
from which issued smells of earth and smoke. Below, more light flickered
and strange sounds whispered in her ears like distant singing.

She stole down the steps like the daring thief Jangar Bey, her favorite
storybook hero. Her fingers followed the curve of the stone wall as the
cool steps wended beneath her feet. The lower she descended, the louder
grew the sounds. The light got stronger, too. At the bottom of the steps
a wide chamber opened before her, cut from the foundation beneath the
house. Flaming torches lit the cavernous room and threw deep shadows
across its painted walls. People in funny costumes stood in a circle and
swayed in rhythm with the rising chant. Deep-blue hoods covered their
faces except for dark eyeholes. Fanciful designs were sewn onto their
clothes, shaggy birds with rearing claws depicted in golden thread.

There was so much to see, Josey didn't notice the song had ended
until the rustle of clothing caught her attention. The hoods came off and
faces emerged into the torchlight, men and women smiling and nodding
as they finished their play, or whatever it was. A head turned and Josey's
breath caught in her throat as familiar eyes cast their gaze across the
chamber. With a startled gasp, she ran back up the steps, not sure why she
fled, but only knowing she had seen something she wasn't meant to witness. When she reached the niche, she slammed shut the paneled door and
darted down the hallway, but the eyes followed her like a bad dream.

The cool eyes of her father.

The hallway stretched into darkness before her. Her breathing thundered in her ears. A haunting dread pursued her through the gloom. She
grasped for something to hold on to, but there was nothing there as she
tumbled down a well of endless night.

With infinite slowness the darkness resolved itself into shapes. At first
indistinct, they loomed large and frightening over Josey's head, until their
edges came together into long shadows across the ceiling. Her body didn't
seem to want to work. She tried to turn her neck and waited for what
seemed like hours before anything came into view. She remembered her dream and shivered. She had forgotten about that day in the old wing of
the house and the secret door in the wall. She had gone back to the niche
days later only to find a bare wall and tight panels that refused to budge
no matter how hard she pried at them. She left the wing convinced it had
all been a bad dream.

The musty smell of the secret cavern lingered in her head.

She sat up. She was lying on a crude bed, little more than a length of
coarse fabric stretched over a wooden frame. The room was unfamiliar,
with walls and ceiling of cracked plaster, devoid of color or decor.

Her head felt strange, like it was wrapped in wet towels. She lifted a
hand to her forehead and groaned as a sliver of agony slid across her temple.
The skin wasn't broken, but she could feel a bruise rising beneath the skin.
What had happened? Fighting back a wave of nausea, she moved to get up.
She was still wearing her nightdress. All of a sudden, the events in her
father's room marched through her mind. She saw Father sitting in his
favorite chair, his chest ripped open in a bloody gash, and the hulking specter
in black standing over him. She remembered the rough hands that had
bound her tight. The authorities had arrived to save her, but the man in
black had killed them all. Was that right? Her thoughts were all jumbled.
But one thing she remembered with crystal clarity: her poor father was dead.

And now she was a captive, likely held for ransom. But who would
pay for her release? She had no other family. The terror of her situation
crept over her like an army of biting ants. She shivered on the cot, unable
to move. Heavy tears slid down her face as the image of her dead father
played over in her head. Poor, poor Father and poor her. She was truly
alone in the world.

The sound of talking silenced her sobs. She wiped her face with a
silken sleeve and tried to stand up. The pain wasn't so bad now. She listened. A man's voice filtered through the room's only door.

must've been killed right before I arrived," the speaker said. A
moment later, he added. "No, this was a real slick job. No broken windows. No blood trail."

Josey couldn't make out any other speakers. As quietly as she could,
she stole up to the door and pressed her ear to the peeling wooden panels.
She heard a little better, but still only the one voice.

"I can't yet, Kit," he said. "Mat was a friend."

Who was Mat? Or Kit? Josey tried to follow the conversation.

"I don't know," the voice continued. "She's part of this somehow, or
the old man was. Either way, she knows something and I intend to find
out what."

Josey stepped away from the door with her heart pounding in her
throat. It had to be the man in black. He was crazy, talking to himself.
From the sound of his ramblings, he meant to interrogate her. Imaginings
of torture popped into her head. She wrapped her arms around her body,
shivering.
I have to get away!

She took another look around the room. At the foot of the cot sat a
heavy locker bound in bands of old bronze. A full-length mirror, actually
a very nice piece she wouldn't have minded owning herself, stood beside
a wooden cabinet opposite a narrow window. She hurried to the window
and threw back the shade. There was no glass in the casement, just two
heavy shutters secured with a slide-lock. She pulled the lock's handle, but
it refused to open. The darkness seemed to deepen around her. There was
something in the room.

She yanked harder, biting her bottom lip as the shutters rattled. Her
fingers encountered something wrapped around the lock, a piece of wire
tied around the slide to keep it from opening. A shadow moved in her
peripheral vision. She clawed at the wire with her fingernails as a tide of
fear swelled inside her. She had to get out.

She screamed as a brutal grip seized her from behind.

The sun had begun to set as Caim turned onto the street of his apartment
building. All day he had scoured Othir's backstreets and alleyways for
information about Mat's murder. Nothing happened in the Gutters
without someone hearing about it. For the right price, or faced with the
proper motivation, the denizens of Low Town could be very forthcoming.
Caim had plied both coin and intimidation with every street hood and
gossipmonger he could find, but no one knew anything. He hadn't
believed it, not until he'd bared his knives and seen the truth in the stark
eyes staring back at him.

About the only thing he'd learned were vague whispers about a new player in town, but nothing solid. It was all just rumors and gossip.
People had turned up missing, not an unusual thing in the Gutters, but
some were people who knew how to survive, like Molag Flat-Nose, an exmercenary and one of the prime suspects on Calm's list. Now that list was
shorter and he was out of leads.

As he entered the front door, Caim considered his situation. He could
always cut and run. Kit would be thrilled. But it didn't sit right with
him. This had gone far beyond a botched hit. Somewhere along the line
it had become personal for him. He'd never had many friends, not besides
Kit. Mathias had treated him well, better than he'd expected when they
first met at a dingy tavern on the west side. The tavern was gone, replaced
by a newer establishment that catered to a better clientele, and now
Mathias was gone, too.

Caim took a taper from the pot in the foyer, lit it from a tiny lamp set
aside for late-night arrivals, and climbed the stairs to the second floor. A
small shape huddled in the unlit hall. Caim started for a knife with his
free hand until he recognized the shape and let it fall back by his side.

The child sat on her haunches against the wall across from his door.
Her large eyes watched him while her spindle-thin fingers traced the
wall's discolored plaster. He paused at his door for a moment. A woman's
soft crying issued from across the hall, punctuated by loud, angry shouts.
Suddenly uncomfortable, he fumbled with his locks and ducked inside,
closing the door to the sounds and the little girl's eyes.

He lit a lamp and went over to the coldbox, trying to push the child's
gaze out of his thoughts. Everyone had problems. Whether or not she
learned to cope with life wasn't his concern. He grabbed a wine jar and
drained it in several deep swallows. He looked at the last dregs of wine
gathered at the bottom of the jar. Something tugged at the back of his
mind. An unquantifiable urge to action tickled his nerves, like some
nameless doom poised over his head, waiting to strike. I'm just tired, he
told himself, but he almost jumped when Kit appeared behind him and
threw her arms around his neck.