The Queen of Lies (8 page)

“I was dead?” Maddox echoed.

“Quite.” Turnbull sniffed. “I saw your broken body and your lifeless eyes, and had it been anyone else, I might have been moved to tears. But murder is a line too far—even in your case—and Tertius’s actions will need to be answered for in front of the full faculty. Get some clothes on and meet us in the drawing room in twenty minutes.”

“I came back from the dead.”

“Yes,” Turnbull said with a heavy sigh. “Twenty minutes.”

Maddox shook his head. “Wait—you’re calling a faculty meeting in twenty minutes?”

Turnbull rolled his eyes. “Twenty minutes is how long it’ll take you to run to your room, get dressed, and hurry back to the drawing room. Everyone else is already there. Magus Tertius died in his sleep last night, and we need to elect a new dean.”

I
MAGINE YOU HAVE
a beautiful gown only to discover every lady at the ball is wearing the same thing. Suddenly it’s no longer beautiful. The stitching hasn’t changed; the emerald satin remains the highest quality; the playful pearl embroidery about the décolletage continues to shimmer in its intricate dance with the candlelight…but what was intended to catch the eye now has become lost in a sea of monotony.

Such it is also with the Patrean face. His bone structure—the square jaw, the straight nose, the determined brow—such a man should be stunning. The woman is nearly his equal with her raven hair and soft, earthy features. Yet those faces are worn by every guard in Thelassus, every soldier in the Red Army, and in the armies of all the lesser nations. The eye grows familiar and learns to disdain it, just as a man cannot feast on whale sausage and plum wine for every meal and still enjoy it.

Whatever ancient magician crafted such features clearly had an eye for beauty, but I’m always puzzled—why the one face? Could they not all be made handsome or beautiful in different ways? Beauty and rarity are intertwined. I’m often asked which is more important. There is no answer to this question, but I always say if one is presented with the choice, always be unique.

—MESSER PISCLATET, ROYAL STYLIST TO PRINCESS SIREEN OF THRYCEA

T
HE ENTRANCE TO
the Twin Shields Longhouse was straddled by a painting of a warrior woman holding two bucklers at chest level to cover her tits. They’d mounted real shields with long points in the center to drive home the subtle meaning of the image. Depicted behind her was a phalanx of oiled men wearing loincloths and holding spears with tips shaped like dicks.

“This is my kind of place!” Sword pumped his fist as he swaggered up to the entrance. “Your ‘friends’ in the tower are covering expenses, right?”

“Classy.” Heath chuckled as he stepped forward and pushed his way inside. “Just keep your hands to yourself unless there’s trouble.”

The main room of the Longhouse had been done up to resemble a warmaster’s pavilion; maps with battle plans hung on the walls beside battered shields and an arsenal of melee weapons. The blades weren’t just decorative; most of them looked like they’d seen combat. A couple of female Fodders reclined on cushioned benches in skimpy leather styled after Rivern battalion uniform.

A one-eyed Fodder with a full blond beard and intricately tattooed arms stood guard by the door. He wore a black leather jerkin, and two longswords hung on his belt. “Brother”—the man nodded to Sword—“looking for work or action?” That’s what Sword would look like in ten years, if he could keep his current body alive that long.

“Information,” Heath said.

“Talk to Red. She’s in back through the door on the left.” The Fodder didn’t even attempt to look like he gave a shit.

Sword halfheartedly saluted the bouncer as he followed Heath to the back. Under his breath he muttered, “What kind of asshole uses two longswords? A longsword isn’t an offhand weapon. Frankly I find it offensive.”

“Remind me what kind of sword you are again.” Heath grinned.

“Technically…the term ‘bastard sword’ comes from my impressively large hilt, which allows me to be held with one or two hands,” Sword said hastily. “It’s no reflection on my character.”

Heath reached the door and knocked a couple times. “You’re the biggest bastard I’ve ever met. Technically.”

“Well, you’re…the stupidest person I’ve ever met.” Sword grumbled and thumped the side of his head. “Except for this meat suit. You couldn’t put me in someone smarter? This tiny brain is killing my witty repartee.”

The door flung open. A statuesque Patrean woman in her late forties stood majestically at the door, her posture straight as an arrow. There was no question, based on the red leather armor or the crimson dye in her hair, as to her identity. “I’m Red, commander of this establishment. Welcome to the Twin Shields.” She saluted them formally. “What are you gentlemen in the mood for?”

“Information.” Heath didn’t bother playing his usual “Orthodoxy business” angle. Most Fodders weren’t religious, and the ones who had served in the Hierocracy didn’t remember their assignments fondly. The priests preferred spending the coin to pay death gratuities for fallen soldiers to spending their Light to heal the unfaithful.

“I could also use a whore,” Sword said.

“It’s the same rate whether you want to talk or fuck,” Red said matter-of-factly. “Twenty ducats an hour, one hour minimum. More if you want to play rough. I’ve got green cadets, seasoned warriors, drill sergeants if you like to take orders, and a couple of night wrestlers if you like to take it up the ass.”

“Night wrestlers are what they call their queers,” Sword whispered to Heath. “They have special training at night in hand-to-hand where the blokes can blow off steam.”

Heath sighed and pulled out the parchment, which he handed to Red. “I understand this man was seen near your establishment the night one of your customers died in his sleep. I’d like to talk to whomever may have spoken to him and to whomever was with the client that night.”

“Really?” Red asked defensively. “The guard and the creepers already took statements.”

“I’m a concerned citizen.”

“I know who you are, dark-skinned one,” Red said. “The rumors say you’re a spice merchant with black-market connections. You live in the Inlet District, so I doubt you’re
that
concerned.”

“I came up on these boardwalks with Cordovis.”

“I heard that too.” She smiled. “You two had a falling out?”

“A lot of people are under the mistaken impression that I work for Cordovis’s people.” He motioned to the bar. “Not many customers here. The attacks can’t have been good for business.”

Red let out a sigh. “Since the attack the only people who come in are Fodders, most of them looking to enlist. People are afraid we’re not warded, but I salt those sheets every morning. The guy who died wasn’t even a client. He was a boatman sweet on Hilta. Her contract was almost up, and I didn’t see the harm in letting them have the room.”

Salted sheets? That’s a new one.
Heath pointed to the parchment. “Did you see this man that evening? He may have been directly responsible for your recent decline in revenues.”

Red nodded. “Yeah. The creepers asked about him too. I talked with him, but he was never anywhere near Hilta’s room. Why? What does he have to do with the deaths?”

“I’ll talk to Hilta,” Sword volunteered, and darted off. Over his shoulder he called out, “Pay the lady.”

“Step into my office.” Red motioned for Heath to follow. The room was Spartan and well organized with shelves of neatly lined ledgers and lockboxes. Red gingerly set herself down in a chair by her desk, pressing her hand against her back. It looked painful. “Your friend is very odd…He has Protectorate markings, but he speaks like an outsider.”

“Fortunately there’s only one of him.” Heath sat in the chair opposite her. “Are you hurt?”

“Old injury that never healed right,” she explained. “You see a lot of that here. I provide a line of work for those of us who no longer can take on mercenary contracts and don’t fancy growing pumpkins in the veteran farmsteads. But you didn’t come here for my service record.”

“You’ve got a fine establishment.” Heath smiled. “I suppose it helps when the girls know three ways to break an arm.”

“There’s more than three, young man.” Red looked at the parchment. “Verge, the bouncer, didn’t remember seeing him come in. When homeless show up, we send them away gently and tell them to come back in the morning for a handout around the back. A lot of them served beside us in the Protectorate’s wars, but Genatrovan vets don’t get farmsteads they can go to. War is just a lot harder on them mentally. No offense.”

“None taken,” Heath said. “Our peoples experience fear differently.”

She continued, “He didn’t make a fuss. He was just sitting in a corner by himself. I don’t even know how long he was there. I thought maybe he was trying to get a free show, but his eyes were white as snow. I told him he had to leave but said to come back the next day for some rations.”

“Did he?” Heath knew this from Loran’s reports, but he suspected there was more to the story; there always was when authority was involved.

“Leave? Eventually. Haven’t seen him since,” Red said. “Old Milk Eyes said he could pay, but he phrased it really strangely. ‘I can’t afford to justly compensate you,’ he told me, ‘but if you permit me to linger here a while, I have something small you may find pleasing.’ Then he handed me this.”

Red reached down the front of her leather corset and drew out a small black velvet pouch about an inch and a half long. She opened the bag slowly, and Heath recognized instantly what it was by the soft glow that came from within. She pulled out a slender crystal that pulsed with soft, coruscating light. Strands of ultravivid hues appeared and floated through it before fading into diffuse forms.

“He gave you
that
?” he whispered.

“I thought it was pretty.” She suddenly looked concerned. “Is it dangerous?”

“That’s an Archean shard,” Heath said. “Worth about thirty prisms, which is probably enough to buy this place—staff contracts included—three times over. Hard to find buyers, though. I could help broker something for a percentage.”

Red tucked the prism into the pouch and slid it down her bra. “Thank you for the offer.”

Heath shrugged. He had a couple of them himself, and he understood. They were almost too beautiful to sell. “You didn’t show that to the Invocari, did you?”

“I didn’t even realize both things happened on the same night until you brought it up today,” Red said. “When the creepers came back a few weeks later, I thought they were looking for the shard. I knew if I told them, they’d have confiscated it.”

“They probably would have,” Heath said, “but they weren’t looking for it. That man’s been at the near the scene of every killing that’s happened. From what I hear, he hasn’t been sneaky about it either.”

“Could he have killed all those people?” Red asked. “Why choose Hilta’s boyfriend? He was nobody special.”

Heath shrugged. “I have no clue, which makes this guy very, very dangerous.”

“Curious he would pick this establishment. Patreans aren’t susceptible to the sleeping death.”

Heath cocked his head. “Really?”

“The warmasters keep extensive archives of every death. Millions of troops over the centuries, camped out for months at a time. Never a single death showing the telltale signs. Most of us think it’s because we don’t have dreams when we sleep. It must be so strange to hallucinate every night.”

“I never knew that,” Heath said. He’d known a lot of Fodders in his time, but they never made mention of that fact. Of course when you were running in street gangs, the topic of dreams rarely came up in conversation. For all he knew, Patreans never cried either.

“Most people never ask.” She shrugged. “Our creators probably didn’t see the point in giving us dreams. Like fear, it seems they’d be a distraction to a warrior.”

“When did Milk Eyes finally leave?” It seemed a fitting enough name for the mysterious man.

“I don’t know.” Red said. “I let him stay in that corner as long as he liked. Told the troops to give him his privacy. At some point I stopped even noticing him, and then the corner was empty. It was a couple hours from dawn when I realized it, but he could have been gone longer. That’s all I know. No one else spoke to him, as far as I know.”

Heath smiled and stood. “Thank you for your time. If I may…”

He put his hand on her shoulder. She recoiled at first, her fist ready to strike, but then she felt his Light. His hand glowed golden where his dark fingers touched her dusky skin. The energy flowed through her body, tracing along her veins in gentle pulses of illumination. She gasped and shut her eyes as the energy cycled through her. She clenched the edge of her chair then moaned softly. Heath removed his hand, and her head lolled forward.

Red placed a hand on her back and looked at him in disbelief. “The pain—it’s gone.”

“It’ll come back. Like you said, the injury wasn’t properly treated. But I did remove the inflammation between your spinal discs. It should be a lot easier to manage. Don’t tell anybody I did this,” he said, placing a finger over his lips.