The Night Parade

Three

The death of the proprietor’s wife drew the attention of the onlookers who had gathered to view Myrmeen’s brawl and the aftermath. When the crowd parted, Cardoc received a brief glimpse of the body and froze. Something clearly troubled him, but even when the Harpers were back on the street, several blocks from the Two-Headed Mare, he refused to say what that was. Burke, Varina, Reisz, and Ord agreed to return separately to the inn, as a large group would have drawn too much attention at this late hour. Lucius and Myrmeen traveled down the dark, silent street on foot. In many sections of the city, mounts were only allowed for the city’s guardsmen and commercial carriages. The streets often were so congested with people that horses panicked and bolted in the street, causing injuries among the wealthy tourist trade. Anything that was bad for business in Calimport was strictly prohibited.

Lucius and Myrmeen walked down a ruined street, passing houses and other buildings that often were the survivors of fires or simply the victims of age and neglect. Myrmeen turned to Cardoc and said, “I grew up here. This place hasn’t changed. The government does nothing to help the poor.”

Myrmeen knew that the city’s underdeveloped, less affluent sections actually lent to Calimport’s allure. Wealthy citizens often paid guides to take them through the worst parts of the city so that they could shower the destitute with the occasional coin or scrap of food. They would return to their mansions and tell their peers of their morally correct, charitable endeavors. In truth, the suffering they witnessed gave them grist for their dinner party conversations.

“In Arabel, you encountered a similar situation when you became ruler,” Lucius remarked.

“Even before,” Myrmeen said as she saw a pair of children playing at the end of the street. “My second husband, Haverstrom Lhal, was a good man. But, like many politicians, he catered to the needs of those with money who could most benefit his career.”

“You brought about changes, government reforms to aid those who could not find work and could not afford to house and feed their families.”

“How do you know so much about me?” Myrmeen asked.

Cardoc tilted his head slightly, like a wolf. “I am a Harper. We are the lord protectors of the Realms. It is my business to know who will most benefit these lands and who will bring to them the greatest threat. Your husband died?”

“Yes,” she said softly. “There was a plot, a conspiracy involving the leaders of several races, to find an object that might have ended human dominance on this world. My husband went off with several others to investigate these rumors and left the city in my care. I had already been given an equal hand in the running of Arabel, and the programs you mentioned had gone far in bringing the people of my city together. They accepted me immediately.”

“And your husband?”

“He never returned. He was killed in an ambush, his head placed on a pike. I never would have believed his death, had I not seen his remains myself.” She became quiet. “Lucius, I’d rather not speak of this.”

“Of course.”

Soon they reached a hostel, a gathering place for children who were homeless or had been made wards of the state, and decided that the direct approach would be best. Walking through the front door, they roused the interest of a man in his early fifties who had a wisp of white hair on his head. Hard, square features dominated his face. The hostel itself once had been a beautiful house of lodgings, subsequently sacrificed to the same decay that had eaten many Calimport neighborhoods. The two Harpers were close to a grand, winding staircase that led to a spacious second-floor landing. Myrmeen had the feeling that the children’s actual quarters were closer to the size of closets than the luxury suites the place once had afforded.

“If you’re here to see one of the children—” he began.

“In a manner of speaking,” Myrmeen said quickly so that the balding, older man would not have a chance to voice an objection. “You see, my husband and I are unable to have children of our own, and we were told that a certain Master Kracauer might be able to help us.”

The man pursed his lips. “Lord Kracauer is not here at the moment. Perhaps if you tell me your names and where you’re staying, I can have him get back to you.”

Myrmeen understood. Kracauer would have to be certain that she and her “husband” were not agents of the local authorities, or bereaved parents trying to find a child of their own who had been taken by slavers. The hostel was an ideal place for a flesh merchant; so many of the children already had been shuffled from one place to another. If a few turned up missing, no one would notice, or care.

Cardoc surged forward, his towering form and wild, intense eyes causing the smaller man to back away in alarm. “You are Kracauer,” Cardoc said as he drove the man backward into a tiny room that Myrmeen had not even noticed. She followed and gently closed the door behind them, locking it so that they would not be disturbed.

The room was a simple office with cases for strange curios from several parts of the world, old, square bound texts, and tightly wrapped scrolls. Cardoc backed the man up to the open window, where soft bluish white moonlight filtered in. The mage wanted Kracauer to see his face as clearly as possible to know that he was not in a mood to be sociable.

“You are Kracauer,” he said again. “I recognize you from the description we were given.”

“All right,” Kracauer said, “what do you want?”

“Your head on a stick if you won’t cooperate,” Cardoc said with a nasty smile. Myrmeen was surprised to note that his accent had changed from the flat monotone with which he usually spoke to a hard-edged gutter dialect that most of her friends had employed when she had been a child in the poor sections of the city. Burke had warned her that Cardoc was a chameleon at times, changing his appearance, wardrobe, and dialects to suit the needs of the moment.

“Just tell me what you want,” Kracauer said.

“We want you to think back,” Myrmeen said, “to fourteen years ago, the night of the great storm. Do you remember?”

He nodded swiftly. “How could I forget? Everyone remembers the storm. In a city like this, they are rare.”

“You were selling children then, just as you are now. You sold a child during the great storm. A baby girl—”

“Who are you people?” Kracauer asked, his panic causing him to inch away from Cardoc. The mage grabbed him by the collar of his waistcoat and slammed him against the window frame.

“Answer her question.”

“There were so many children,” he mewled. “How can I possibly remember that one?”

“He’s lying. Should I kill him?” Cardoc asked, then pulled his hand back and whispered a phrase. Suddenly a ball of flame appeared in his hand, the fire generating enough heat to cause Kracauer to break into an immediate sweat.

“You’re one of them!” he cried. “Please, I’ve told no one. Lord Zeal, please!”

Myrmeen felt her heart thunder in her chest at the name.

“One of who?” Cardoc asked, bringing the flame closer. His hand, amazingly, did not appear to be damaged by the flames. “And who is Lord Zeal?”

“This is a test” he said, shaking his head quickly. “I don’t know. I don’t know anyone named Zeal, I don’t know anything about you people.”

“What people?” Cardoc said, bringing the fire close enough to singe the man’s eyebrows.

“The Night Parade!” he shouted. “There! Satisfied?”

“Tell us about the girl,” Myrmeen said excitedly. “A man named Dak gave you the child to cover his gambling debts. You sold her—”

“There were two others,” Kracauer said, his fear overtaking him. “It wasn’t just me, you know.”

“What are their names?” she asked.

“Johannas and Nehlridge. They’re both still in the city. They might remember. They might know. I only remember bits and pieces of what happened that night. I know there were children, many, many children, and the nightmare people came. They wanted the children, and they paid handsomely for them, all the children born that night—”

With a short, choking cry, Kracauer fell silent, his eyes rolling back into his head, the tip of a blood-drenched knife jutting from his larynx. Cardoc grabbed Myrmeen and threw her to the hardwood floor, the flame in his hand vanishing. She heard the sound of a blade slicing though the air above their heads like the hiss of a snake breathing out in warning. It struck the wooden door she had locked when they had entered the room. The mage was already crouched beside the open window, reciting several spells, always leaving out the last few words so that he could trigger them at any time. He leaned against the wall as he eyed the window suspiciously and motioned for Myrmeen to crawl as close to the wall as possible. There was only one window in the room, one possible entrance point for other weapons.

Kracauer had fallen facedown onto his desk. The handle of the blade that had killed him was buried deep in his neck. The force that had been used to throw the weapon must have been considerable, Myrmeen wagered, as only the hilt could be seen. She glanced at the door, where the second dagger had struck. Its blade, too, had passed entirely through the hard wood, leaving only the glittering black hilt exposed.

Suddenly Cardoc jumped to his feet and turned to face the window, his hands curled in an arcane gesture, ready to propel the force of some powerful spell against the assassin who had been standing in the alley. His hands relaxed as he snatched a small mirror from the desk and thrust it outside the window. He checked the area on either side of the window, then above and below the frame.

“The killer is gone,” Cardoc said.

Myrmeen nodded and used the wall for leverage as she stood up and went to Kracauer’s body. She was about to touch the dagger’s hilt when Cardoc screamed for her to stop. She froze where she was, her fingers inches from the cold, sparkling metal. Something about the weapon’s design seemed familiar.

Suddenly, she saw a wreath of darkness separate from the weapon and hang just above the dead man like a deadly, nebulous cloud. It quickly descended into the dead man’s body, sinking deep into his flesh. Across the room, where the second blade had struck, a large, round band of darkness was eating into the wooden door. In moments, it vanished as well. The hilts of both weapons now shone gray, as if they had been covered in black tar that was now completely washed away. Their bizarre design reminded her of lightning bolts. They caught the light and reflected it back as if to reinforce that notion.

Cardoc nodded toward the window. “W; must leave.”

Myrmeen followed him through the open window, into the alley beyond. She took a final glance inside the office and suddenly knew why the knives had seemed so disturbingly familiar: She had seen them in a dream.

No, she corrected herself, not a dream. A nightmare.