“And the carriage? It has the look of having been rammed, as if by a mad bull. Scry the horse, dammit!”
Stul Ophan staggered up to the quivering, lathered animal. As he reached up one hand the horse reared back, eyes rolling, ears flattening against its skull. The magus swore. “Driven mad! Its heart races but it cannot move. It will be dead within the hour-”
“But, what did it see? What image remains behind its eyes?”
“Obliterated,” Stul Ophan said. “Wiped clean.”
They both turned as the fast-approaching sound of shod hooves on the cobblestones. An armoured rider appeared, boldly pushing his white charger past the guards- Hood, what’s the point of having a cordon of guards? The newcomer wore a white fur-lined cloak, a white-enamelled iron helm, and a coat of silver mail. The pommel at the end of his broadsword looked to be a single polished opal.
Guld cursed under his breath, then called out to the rider. “What brings you here, Mortal Sword?”
The man reined in. He removed his helmet to reveal a narrow, scarred face and close-set eyes that glittered black. Those eyes now turned to the lantern-lit scene in the alley. “The foulest of deeds,” he rasped, his voice thin and ragged-the story went that a Drek assassin’s dagger had come near to opening the man’s throat a dozen years back-but Tulgord Vise, Mortal Sword to the Sisters, had survived, while the assassin hadn’t.
“This is not a religious matter,” Guld said, “though I thank you for your vow to scour the nights until the killer is found-”
“Found, sir? Carved into pieces, this I have sworn. And what do you, cynical unbeliever, know of matters of faith? Do you not smell the stench of Hood in this? You, Magus, can you deny the truth of my words?”
Stul Ophan shrugged. “A necromancer-most certainly, Mortal Sword, but that doesn’t perforce mean a worshipper of the God of Death. Indeed, the priesthood disavows necromancy. After all, those dark arts are an assault on the Warren of the Dead-”
“Political convenience, that disavowal. You are a spineless, mewling fool, Ophan. I have crossed swords with Hood’s Herald, or do you forget?”
Guld noted one of his guardsmen flinch at that. “Tulgord Vise,” the sergeant said, “Death was not the goal here-hasn’t been all along.”
“What do you mean, sir?”
“I mean the killer is… collecting-”
“Collecting?”
“Parts.”
“Parts?”
“Organs, to be more precise. Ones generally considered vital to life, Mortal Sword. Their removal results in death as a matter of course. Do you see the distinction?”
Tulgord Vise leaned on the horn of his saddle. “Semantics are not among the games I play, sir. If only organs are required, why then the destruction of souls?”
Guld turned to the magus. “Destruction, Stul Ophan?”
The man shrugged uneasily. “Or… theft, Sergeant, which is of course more difficult…”
“But why steal souls, if destroying them more easily serves the purpose of ensuring your inability to question them?”
“I don’t know.”
Tulgord Vise settled back in his saddle, one gauntleted hand resting on his sword. “Do not impede me, sir,” he said to Guld. “My blade shall deliver what is just.”
“Better the madman writhe on the hooks,” Guld replied, “unless you feel sufficient to the task of quelling a city’s bloodlust.”
This silenced the Mortal Sword, if only briefly. “They will sit well with my deed, sir-”
“It won’t be enough, Mortal Sword. Better still if we drag him through every street, but it’s not up to me. In any case,” Guld added, stepping forward, “it’s you who’d best stay out of my way. Interfere with me at your peril, Mortal Sword.”
Tulgord Vise half-drew his weapon before Stul Ophan leapt close and stilled the man’s arm.
“Tulgord, ’tis precipitous!” the magus bleated.
“Remove your feeble grip, swine!”
“Look about you, sir. I beg you!”
The Mortal Sword glanced around, then slowly resheathed his weapon. Clearly, unlike Stul Ophan, he hadn’t heard the locking of six crossbows, but the weapons were trained on him now, and the expressions on the faces of Guld’s squad left no doubt as to their intent.
The sergeant cleared his throat. “This is the twelfth night in a row, Mortal Sword. It has, I believe, become very personal to my men. We want the killer, and we’ll have him. So again, stay out of my way, sir. I seek no insult to you or your honour, but draw your blade again and you’ll be dropped like a rabid dog.”
Tulgord Vise kicked Stul Ophan away, then wheeled his mount. “You mock the gods, sir, and for that your soul will pay.” He put spurs to the charger’s flanks and rode off.
The moment was closed by the sudden collapse of the carriage horse, followed immediately by the heavy snap of quarrels released in the animal’s direction. Guld winced as the six bolts buried themselves in the horse’s body.
Dammit, those fingers itched, didn’t they. He swung a sour look on his sheepish men.
Stul Ophan occupied the embarrassed moment by straightening his clothing. Then he said without looking up, “Your killer’s a foreigner, Sergeant. No one in Lamentable Moll is of this high order in necromancy, including me.”
Guld acknowledged his thanks with a nod.
“I’ll report to the king,” the magus said as his own carriage returned, “to the effect that you’ve narrowed your list of suspects, Sergeant. And I shall add my opinion that, barring interference, you’re close to your quarry.”
“I hope you’re right,” Guld said in a moment of honest doubt that clearly startled Stul Ophan, who simply nodded then walked to his carriage.
Guld waited until the man left, then singled out one of his guards and pulled him to one side. He studied the young man’s face. “Death’s Herald crossed your trail, then?”
“Sir?”
“I saw you react to Vise’s words. Of course, he meant someone else in that sordid role, since it’s a claim he’s made for twenty years. But what did you hear in those words?”
“A superstition, Sergeant. A drunken old man, earlier this night, down in the wharf district-he called himself that, is all. Was nothing, in truth-”
“What was the man doing?”
“Reading a posted notice in Fishmonger’s Round, I think. It’s still there, warded, I heard.”
“Likely nothing to it, then.”
“As the gods decree, sir.”
Guld narrowed his gaze, then grunted. “Fair enough. Once I’ve done reporting to the king, let’s take a look at this notice.”
“Yes, sir.”
At this moment the dogger returned with his hounds. “It’s a mess,” he reported. “By their tuck they found a woman’s trail, or a man’s, or both, or neither. One, or two, then a third, heavy I’d say that last one with brine and sword-oil, or so the dogs danced, anyway.”
Guld studied the six hounds on their limp leashes, their heads hanging, their tongues lolling. “Those trails. Where did they all lead?”
“Lost them down in the wharfs-y’got rotting clams and fish guts to contend with, eh? Or else the trails were magicked. My children here all closed in on a sack of rotting fish-not like ’em, I say, not like ’em at all.”
“From the smell, your hounds did more than just close in on that sack of rotting fish.”
The dogger frowned. “We thought we might do better hiding our scent, sir.”
Guld stepped closer to the man, then flinched back. Hood take me, wasn’t just the dogs that rolled in those fish! He stared at the dogger.
The man looked away, licking his lips, then yawning.
Subly’svoice came from the main room. “Pigeons! They’re roosting over our heads, in the eaves, in the drain pipes-why haven’t you done anything about it, Emancipor? And now… and now, oh, Soliel forfend!”
It was a voice that could penetrate every corner of their house. A voice from which there was no domestic escape. “But soon…” Emancipor whispered, knowing his mood was miserable from lack of sleep and too much drink the night before, knowing he was being unfair to his poor wife, knowing all these things but unable to stop the dark torrent of his thoughts. He paused to examine in the tin mirror the blur of his lined face and the bloodshot eyes, before setting the blade once again to his whiskers.