Sword of Dreams (The Reforged Trilogy) (37 page)

"You summoned me, Gavriel?" As she rose again, the princess caught sight of her bloodied cousin. Xartasia faltered. "What do you wish of me?"

"Maeve told me that you came to see her."

The princess' violet eyes flicked back and forth between Maeve and Gavriel. "Yes. I warned her."

"About what?"

"That it was unwise to fight you."

"You like her."

"She is of my family," Xartasia answered carefully. "Maeve is stronger than those who wear your black robes."

"No one is strong enough to withstand all of life's torment," Gavriel said.

Xartasia looked down at the blood on the floor. "Did she give you her memories of the Tamlin Waygate?"

"No. She's being stubborn. Every time Hallax cuts her, she just remembers that Prian man, Coldhand."

"You will not break her with pain," Xartasia told him. "Maeve has spent decades trying to drown her losses in battle."

"You underestimate what I can do to her," Gavriel said. "Before I am done, Logan Coldhand will be her savior, not her hunter."

"I do not doubt the pain you can inflict on Maeve," said Xartasia. "But this is not the way."

Gavriel stroked his cheek. The skin was as thin and dry as paper folded too many times. Maybe Xartasia was right. Hours of torture had done nothing to coax Maeve's memories. She stubbornly shielded them with thoughts of the bounty hunter. He was a source of both pain and a strange sort of pleasure.

Perhaps, if Hallax could have plied the full extent of his trade… But Gavriel could risk no damage to Maeve's brain. If Xartasia was correct, pain would win him nothing and opening up too much of Maeve's flesh might kill her. She would do Gavriel no good in a grave.

And she does not yet deserve a sweet death.

"What do you suggest, then?" Gavriel asked.

"I am not certain yet."

Gavriel stood and stepped over a puddle of feathers and cold, sticky blood. Xartasia followed in obedient silence. Out in the hallway, Gavriel called to one of the clustered Nihilists.

"Wake her," he instructed, pointing over his shoulder to where Maeve sat. "She gets no sleep and no food until she gives me what I need. But if she dies under your care, you will be thrown down into the pit."

"Yes, Lord Gavriel."

________

Logan parked outside the Arcadian district. The hunter thrust a handful of colored cenmark chips into the hand of a man leaning against an abandoned storefront and told him to watch the truck. The Talon-9 seemed to convince the man that Logan was a police officer. Gripper's hulking presence helped assure his frightened but sincere honesty.

It took them several hours and many more bribes to find Ballad. An old Arcadian woman did not seem to understand Aver very well, but grasped enough to accept Logan's money and sent them up a rusty, rickety stairwell. Neither of the fairies at the top were Ballad, but one of them knew of him.

"You can usually find him or one of his boys at the house on Ovidius," a one-winged girl told them.

The house on Ovidius was a leaning building covered in graffiti. A young Arcadian met them at the door, dressed from head to foot in black leather but with a bright green scarf around his neck. Logan recognized him as Kashan, one of Ballad's friends. Kashan's gaze lingered on Gripper for a long moment before he returned his attention to Coldhand.

"I didn't think we would see you again," he said.

"I need to talk to Ballad," Logan told Kashan shortly.

The fairy tough gestured at Gripper with the tip of one wing. "What about him?"

"You don't need to worry about him. He's a coward," said Logan.

"Hey!" Gripper protested.

Logan looked up at him. "You are."

"But you don't have to tell them!"

"What is he?" Kashan asked.

"He's an alien, hawk. I don't know what kind, and I don't care. Now, I need to talk to Ballad."

"Fine."

Kashan nodded and stepped back to let them inside. The house was full of Arcadians, most of them gathered around a small stove. They looked up as Logan and Gripper passed, but seemed content to let Kashan deal with the strangers.

Ballad stood over a table in a back room. A rough, hand-drawn map lay stretched across the tabletop, weighed down at the corners by empty bottles and chunks of concrete.

"A'ma saevanii,"
said Kashan.

Logan had no idea what that meant, but it got Ballad's attention. He waved several other leather-jacketed Arcadians from the room. Kashan remained, lingering in the doorway behind Logan and Gripper.

"Did you find what you were looking for?" Ballad asked.

"No," Logan said. "I need more information."

"It didn't seem to help you very much last time. What makes you think I can do better now?"

"This is closer to home. I'm looking for someone who deals in chems."

"I thought you were looking for a cult."

"Does anyone sell Vanora White around here?" Logan asked.

"A lot of chem dealers come through this part of town," Ballad told him apologetically. "I don't know exactly what they were selling. We don't usually take the people we find out drinking. You were an exception."

"You've got to know something!" Gripper cried. "Freezer said you take care of the Arcadians here."

"We do." Ballad's voice took on a hard edge. He frowned across the table. "And when we find chem dealers, that means breaking their beaks, not taking inventory for them! Some probably sold Vanora White, but I can't tell you any more than that."

"That's it?" Logan asked. "That's all you've got?"

"Please," Gripper said. He held out his hands out imploringly to Ballad. "We're trying to find my friend. She's an Arcadian, too. Isn't there something else you can do?"

Ballad slapped the tabletop, making the empty bottles jump and wobble. "Look, if I could stop my own people from going missing, I would! But I don't know what's happening to them, either!"

Logan's stomach knotted. They were getting nowhere and quickly running out of places to look. He hoped that Panna and Tiberius were having better luck.

________

A lab technician pulled a magnifying glass over the tray. The springs in the metal arm creaked. She turned the needle over in gloved hands.

"I don't have a lot for you, I'm afraid," she said. "The manufacturer's mark is a counterfeit, but that's not uncommon."

It was crowded in the laboratory. Tiberius was downstairs with Cerro, nervously awaiting an update from Xia on Duaal's status.

Panna looked over the lab tech's shoulder. "Anything else? What about fingerprints?"

"None. It was wiped down, probably prior to sale. There were a couple of fibers. Red and synthetic. Whoever used the needle was wearing gloves."

"So no prints. Anything else? Can you tell us where it was sold?" Panna asked.

The tech shook her head. "I'm sorry, no. It's a local mix, but I can't narrow it down much more than that."

Panna sighed and rubbed her eyes. "Why not? Can't you do a molecular breakdown? There must be some kind of pollutants or something that can pinpoint where it was manufactured!"

"You're talking about detecting materials in one part per hundred thousand," the technician said. "And trying to find those in a trace sample of less than a drop. We don't have that kind of equipment."

"Can you tell us anything at all?"

Frowning, the Prian woman shook her head.

Panna sighed. "I'm sorry," she said. "I don't… I don't mean to be rude. This was used to drug a woman in an abduction. We're trying to find her."

The tech looked up. Her eyes were the same hard blue as all of the other Prians that Panna had ever met. It was easy to imagine that the people here were carved out of harder stone than their own mountains.

"Even if I could tell you where this White was made, I don't know that it would help. This stuff gets distributed all across the county. You can find it in any alley in Pylos," she told Panna. "I'm afraid this needle isn't going to help you find your friend."

________

Cerro came in with a folder and two cups of coffee. He pushed one of the chipped mugs across the desk. "Here."

Tiberius took it gratefully. The heat soothed some of the pain in his old joints. Tiberius gulped down a few mouthfuls of the dark, acidic coffee. It tasted pretty much as bad as he remembered. Good coffee beans needed a warm place to grow and there were not many of those on Prianus.

"Did you find anything?" Tiberius asked.

Cerro handed him the folder. "Nothing recent. There's some mention of the Church of Nihil, but even the latest information is six years old. I'm not doubting you, Captain Myles, but if the Nihilists are in Pylos, then they're being careful and quiet."

Tiberius put the coffee aside. It did not mix well with the worry. He opened the folder. "But you've got something."

"I think so," Cerro said. "There were some reports of the Nihilists from Highwind. A Mirran that they called
the Emberguard
was selling poisoned chems. Killed almost a hundred buyers. When the cops cornered him, this mad hawk killed one and maimed the other. The survivor vanished not long after he got out of the hospital."

Tiberius looked at the photograph clipped to the report and was suddenly glad he had stopped drinking the coffee. He would have spit it all over the page. The man in the photograph was a few years younger and still wore his blue police uniform, but Tiberius recognized Logan Coldhand.

Could this bright-eyed young cop be the same man who had hunted Maeve for the last year, as cold and merciless as a wild falcon? Or the same haunted-looking man who landed at Kemmer's base camp only that morning? Tiberius read over the report's first page. It detailed Coldhand's injuries… Not just the hand, but the man's heart, too. Logan Centra had very nearly died on the operating table four times during surgery.

"They think that this Lieutenant Centra might have joined the Nihilists. Precinct officers talked to his dove. She swore that Centra was a good man and would never go over to the other side. But she admitted that he had been different, a changed man since his wounding." Cerro ran his finger down the scar along his cheek. "God, can you even imagine a cop turning like that?"

Tiberius sighed. "Is this your lead?"

"Yes. What's wrong, Captain Myles?"

"I know this man. He's a bastard, but he's no Nihilist."

Cerro frowned. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. I'm sure," Tiberius said.

"Then we're right back in the nest. We're out of places to look."

________

A sharp slap jerked Maeve back into wakefulness. Another Nihilist – neither Hallax nor his master – crouched in the lamplight and held a cup to her lips.

"Drink," he told her.

Maeve spat a mouthful of half-frozen water into the Nihilist's face. The man jumped back.

"I will accept nothing from you!" she croaked. It was as loud as she could make her voice after hours of screaming. "Leave me alone!"

"Please. You can't die yet."

Maeve turned her face away. Every inch of her body thrummed with pain. The multitude of cuts were no longer bleeding freely, but one of her ankles was swelling impressively and darkening with bruises. Was something broken? The joint was full of liquid agony and her stifled heartbeat hammered in her ears.

She twisted her wrists in the handcuffs. The skin was raw and sticky with blood. Her fingers brushed against each other and Maeve wheezed a soft cry of agony. How long until her nails would grow back?

I am useless in this state.

Maeve singing the anesthetic charm that Orthain had taught her as a squire, the same one she had used to ease Kessa's labor. The Nihilist yelped and slapped her again.

"No!" he cried. "No spells."

She considered trying again, but the Nihilist grabbed a piece of cloth from her pants, cut away by Hallax as he worked, and stuffed it into Maeve's mouth. She tried to spit it out, but he tied the gag in place with another bit of cloth.

"If you're not going to drink, then I guess I don't need to leave your mouth uncovered," the Nihilist said.

He sat down on the edge of Gavriel's empty chair and put his chin in his hands, watching Maeve. Every time her eyelids began to close, the Nihilist guard kicked her wounded ankle. Maeve groaned into her gag.

"No sleeping," he told her.

Maeve blinked her sticky eyes. How long until Gavriel returned, until he was prying at her memories with his songs? Until Hallax was back with the glass knife? She renewed her struggles.

The Nihilist brought his heel down on her ankle. "None of that, either," he said.

"Love is reason to live. Lust is reason to kill."