That raised a ghost of a smile. My hand hesitated over the lid, reluctant to open it. It would bring back bad memories and pain, so much pain. When I finally pressed my palm to the lid there was a series of clicks and then a soft hissing. It creaked open without assistance.
On top I had carelessly piled scraps of paper and scrolls covered in my shaky scrawl, artefacts of my Collegiate years. I scooped them out and dumped them onto the floor.
Charra picked up some furled parchment and studied it. Her eyebrows climbed. “Really, Walker, poetry? You?” She chuckled. “Eyes blue as deepest sea, hair curled like the waves, wanton lips ripe for–”
I flushed and snatched it from her hands. “It was a horrible mistake I didn’t repeat.”
Under the papers lay my old greatcoat. I lifted it out and shook decade-old creases loose from the grey cloth, studying it with a critical eye. With great effort, master artificers of the Arcanum could make ensorcelled armour proof against arrows, or courtly attire designed to enhance allure – unusual items of all kinds. Normally you had to do some great service for the Arcanum to acquire such rarities, unless, say, a master artificer had certain nasty and illegal habits, unless one were to, say, make a huge mistake and require certain witnesses to forget his face. The item I’d requested as a payoff was something far more practical than armour and allure: the greatcoat was waterproof and self-cleaning, and since those awful ragged tears were all gone it was now apparently self-repairing. That was odd, but I wasn’t one to check a gift horse’s teeth.
I slipped on the soft wool, fastening black leather and brass buckles across my chest. It felt like donning a second skin, and a little like coming home. I spun to face Charra. “Well, how do I–”
Wait. Ragged tears in my coat? Yes! I used the old memory to ram a lever into the locked doors in my mind. The taste of blood flooded my mouth. I doubled over, clutching my head as the dire secret held inside slammed into its gaol doors.
Tower on fire. Drenched in gore, soaked to the skin through my tattered coat, Artha’s blood sizzling against my skin.
I saunter out through the shattered door to the god’s tower and light a soggy blood-stained roll-up from the flaming wreckage. I taste his blood on my lips as I inhale. A god’s death cry echoes through the city as my plume of smoke twists into the air.
A voice: “Is it done? Is his madness ended?”
Flashing a grin at the only other being present, a woman, perhaps. Whoever or whatever it was, she was blacked out, fuzzy, a gaping hole in my memory.
“I’m gasping for a drink. You buying?”
Panic paralysed me until the horrific memory retreated back into its prison. Oh gods, oh sweet fuck, I’d been in Artha’s tower when he died. I’d been right there! I could still taste his blood burning against my lips. Sweet Lady Night, did I kill him? How? He was a god – it would be like trying to murder a mountain.
I’d made a deal to keep the details secret, even from me, in exchange for my friends’ safety and I’d kept it for ten long years. But what if that knowledge had something to do with Lynas’ murder? I had to uncover every detail of the horrific crime I’d committed, if crime it was. Even this much involvement, if it were to be known, would have had the entire city baying for my head on a spike atop the walls.
“What’s going on, Walker?” Charra asked. “You are not well.”
I focused on Charra. Only on Charra. I straightened up and scrubbed blood from my face with the sleeve of my coat. The red stain dissipated into the weave, absorbed or eaten. “I’m fine, for now, but being back is going to get me killed. Daemons are hunting me by the scent of my magic and if they don’t get me the Arcanum will, sooner or later.”
Her lips thinned. “Then you need to leave again. Right away.”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “I can’t do that. Lynas fought to tell me something as he lay dying. Something important enough for him to sacrifice his life.” And mine. The shattered details of the vision hinted at something far larger than ourselves. “I need to find the bastard that murdered him.”
“A pox on that,” she said. “Nothing you can do will bring him back. You have to live.” She tried to keep it from her face, gods bless her, but I could tell that she badly wanted me to stay and help.
This was Charra – she had survived everything the streets of Setharis had thrown at her, and not only survived, but thrived. Nobody hauled themselves up out of the gutter without getting their hands dirty. She was hard. Far harder than me when she had to be. She deserved to know what they did to Lynas.
“Charra, they skinned him. The only reason they would do that is to use his flesh for blood sorcery. Our skin and Gift grows more resistant to magic as we age and grow in power, so it’s not something they can use. Mageblood is extortionate on the black market, but if they’d just wanted that then there are easier and safer ways.” In the past I’d thought little of selling my blood so a few addicts with very expensive tastes could get high on a touch of magic. It was wildly dangerous to the unGifted, who lacked the capacity to control such raw power. It was one of the few things I truly regretted, a foul secret I would never share.
Grave-robbing had been rife in the distant past, magus bones looted for elixirs and sorcerous rituals, which is why cremation was now the ultimate destiny of all Gifted. Every living thing contained a small amount of magic in blood and bone, but every bit of a magus’ body was so filled with magic that even our shite was a potent resource, the chamber pots and privies in Arcanum buildings emptied out into special slurry pits whose reeking gunk was spread over the farmlands surrounding Setharis. The magic seeped into the land and fed the spirits of growth and plenty, producing crops resistant to drought, plague-spirits and insects, with yields so enormous that we were almost able to feed this ravenous dark city of ours without relying on imports.
Blood sorcery was entirely different to using the Gift: it tore magic from living flesh and corrupted anybody who sought to use it.
“I already know it wasn’t just for mageblood,” Charra said. “I’m not without my own resources. As far as we know Lynas was the seventh known mageborn victim of the Skinner, and the latest was a full blown magus. He’s stepping up his game, and nobody normal would risk attacking a magus for his blood.”
My voice shook with fury. “Seventh.” It explained the city’s heavy atmosphere of fear only too well, and that would only be the surface of the pond. How many more people had the bastard killed? “And the Arcanum did nothing?”
She scowled. “The Old Town scum didn’t seem to take much notice until the magus was murdered.”
My fists shook, denied any Arcanum throats to tear out with my bare hands.
Charra continued, her voice calm and businesslike, “Also, nobody has seen hide nor hair of any mageblood dealers for the last six months or so.”
I ground my teeth. “It has been traded in Setharis for centuries, always has been, always will be.” I knew that from personal experience.
She glanced sideways at me. “Not anymore. Good riddance if you ask me. Even for alchemics that stuff is dangerous. But with these Skinner murders I find their disappearance beyond suspicious.”
I forced my hands to relax as I mulled over this news. There would be a reckoning with the Arcanum later. One enemy at a time. “The dealers ended up dead?”
She shrugged. “They too went missing. Not a single vial of mageblood can be bought on the black market for gold or threats. Perhaps the supply has run dry.”