The Traitor God

Chapter 12

Gold and silver are the greatest lubricants known to man. Greasing palms makes everything easier, everywhere, and black-marketeers and snitches were never less than ruinously expensive, which made my meagre stash about as useful as teats on a fish. It didn’t take me long to find a gambling den in the Warrens; all you had to do was follow the sweet scent of alchemic smoke and the sour odour of drunken fools shuffling along with golden dreams in their eyes and poverty in their future. Sooner or later they all ended up in the sleaze-pit called the Scabs, the scummiest part of the entire city, an impressive claim considering the competition. The muddle of crooked lanes housed the very worst gambling dens, where underground slavers and pimps bet flesh as often as coin. It was also where the best information brokers plied their trade.

An old man doddered into me from behind and I felt a hand slip into my pocket. I backhanded him into the mud and gave it no more thought. Cutpurses were the least of my concerns – I was far more worried about the moneylenders. When I fled Setharis I’d owed a bucket of gold to various unsavoury characters and their sort never forgot or forgave, but to look on the bright side, hopefully they were all dead by now.

I ended up dicing in a copper-bit dive occupying the mouldy basement of a raucous tavern. It was heaving with painted, pox-ridden doxies and hairy-knuckled toughs with overhanging foreheads taking bread money from the desperate and the drunk. It wasn’t the sort of place to hear interesting snippets of gossip, not the sort of place I needed to be, so I stayed just long enough to grow my handful of copper into silver and got out before they dragged me into a back alley and kicked my head in. I didn’t even use my Gift, just a load of bullshit and skill gained from a misspent youth and a downright wasted adulthood. I didn’t even enjoy the games: amateurs like them exhibited too many tells and their attempts to cheat me were frankly embarrassing.

I went up-market, as much as you can in the Warrens anyway – at least the building wasn’t in imminent danger of collapse, even if it did seem held up mostly by soot and mould. It was the kind of place a man might hear rumours dripping from loosened lips of gang bosses and their lieutenants, boasts of murders and dodgy deals. In short, it was exactly where I might uncover information on the Skinner and Lynas’ murder. I walked through the door, past the cold eyes of gang enforcers on guard duty, the sort of men that wouldn’t balk at breaking bones and cutting up bodies before heading home to tell their daughter a gentle bedtime story.

One big brute covered in scars was overly twitchy. The scar tissue was surgically straight and smooth, his skin a little flushed, the muscles too defined and bulky; all classic signs of fleshcrafter modifications to heighten reactions and muscle growth. It was highly illegal, but some magi with the talent for healing would happily pervert their calling in the cause of extra gold, or to obtain fresh research materials. Usually his sort were built for cavern-fights, their owners pitting prize fighters against each other in underground rings. His body would burn itself up and he would die early, but until then he would be like a daemon in a scrap, and earn extra coin for it too. He had probably accrued a hefty debt to the wrong people, but I supposed it was better than a knife between the ribs or selling your organs for a fleshcrafter to implant into the diseased and unscrupulous rich.

The brute’s gimlet eyes lingered on my back as I descended to the card tables. A smile slipped onto my face. Oh, how I had missed the bluff and tumble of high-stakes gambling, the expectant thrill of my gold wagered on a single toss of the dice or flip of the last card, the sudden hush as one by one my opponents revealed their hands. Fleecing drunken farmers in the hinterlands lacked this dangerous lustre. If only I had the time to enjoy such frivolities.

I scoped out the smoky room, dimly lit by twinkling rush-lights on the tables and oil lanterns on the walls, taking in the padded booths at the back where purple-lipped khufali addicts reclined immersed in sweet smoke and vibrant dreams. Scantily clad men and women served drinks, occasionally slipping upstairs when they took a customer’s fancy and their coin. I didn’t dare use my magic here: with this much coin changing hands they would have a sniffer mingling. Still, that didn’t mean I couldn’t open up my Gift in a more passive way, soaking in the atmosphere and any stray thoughts; here those thoughts were dark and perverse, reeking of fear, aggression and despair. It was maddening to have my Gift open but not draw in magic, akin to wafting slabs of sizzling bacon under the nose of a starving man and telling him not to chow down.

After earning some gold at dice I slipped into a booth and engaged an information broker for details on the Skinner murders, and for events that occurred around that date. He knew only two things more than I already uncovered: the first was that the murdered magus had been a white-robe. The revered members of the Halcyon Order were the only magi that normal folk had anything good to say about. Healing was a rare talent that I dearly wished I possessed, and I would have traded my cursed Gift for that in the blink of an eye. I’d seen far too many people die while I looked on helplessly. They were the closest thing to sacrosanct that Setharis had. The other was that somebody had torched an old temple in the Warrens that same night. In my mind I was plotting distances from there to Bootmaker’s Wynd, but the slums of Setharis stretched a good half-day’s walk and I was going to need Charra’s map. It might prove coincidental but I filed it away for investigation. On mentioning Bardok the Hock he proved a more bountiful source. That greedy old git was working with the Harbourmaster in charge of Pauper’s Docks, who was on the payroll of the alchemic syndicates. Which linked to imports, and to Lynas.

Once I was done with the information broker I picked a central table suitable for mental eavesdropping, tossed some coin in and eased myself down onto the bench opposite a heavily built older man wearing a flat cap – a dockhand judging by his rope-burned hands – with a clay pipe clamped between rotten brown teeth. He glanced at me and then went back to studying his cards and puffing on a pipe with the tarry reek of cheapest tabac. The dealer flipped two painted cards my way and then placed another three face-up on the table. I peeked at my hand, kept my face still at the glorious sight of two High House cards. So the dealer was going for the usual hustle of letting me win small, then upping the ante until I was overconfident and bet all my coin on a single round of cards. Then some accomplice would wipe me out with an amazing hand, with the help of some dodgy dealing of course. Naturally I had no qualms about cheating outrageously myself when the time came. I tapped my highest cards thoughtfully, letting the tiniest trickle – barely a sip – of magic seep into them with each tap, building my trickery up layer by layer, each use far too subtle to be noticed by any sniffer they could possibly afford.

Usually I wouldn’t resort to using my Gift for something so minor; it felt like cheating when I could win through skill and deception, but I didn’t have the time to fritter away. It was easy to bluff when you could read people’s expressions and body language as well as I could, no magic needed; all it took was a little attention to detail. Most people seemed to meander through life blindfolded when it came to the emotions of others. I couldn’t quite fathom that sort of ignorance, but then I was hardly normal.

I let the chatter of customers wash over me, immersing myself in the mood of the room, keeping ear and mind out for any interesting titbits to fill in gaps in my knowledge. The Skinner was a topic on many lips and stray thoughts, but I learned little but unsubstantiated rumour and conspiracy theories. A tension filled the air, so thick I could almost taste it. It was the sort of atmosphere that built up slowly, thickening until it eventually exploded in somebody’s face. It wasn’t just the Skinner; this was something that ran much deeper. Too many bad things in such a short time, too many people gone missing, and nobody knew who, which let suspicion bloat into a loathsome beast.

I won the first three rounds before the dockhand threw his cap in and admitted defeat. It was a shrewd man who knew when to quit. Three others took his place around the table, lured by the chance of winning a share of my growing stack of coin. They just made my winnings rack up all the quicker. The gambling den’s owners sent free drinks over, but that was fine with me, it’d take more than a little booze to throw me off my stride thanks to years of rigorous training in that respect. My winnings grew. You don’t win that much without drawing attention, and I could feel people’s eyes on me now, including one woman I suspected to be a sniffer from the distracted look as she walked past me, nose crinkling even though she wasn’t looking for a physical scent. I flipped a smoke between my lips and lit it from a rush-light. I’d have to be careful to time my cheating just right.

Focused on the game, studying the cards being dealt, I sensed a woman slip down beside me and noted a smooth dark thigh and the subtle, exotic scent she wore. I knew the type, the sort of pretty leech that attached themselves to winners and drained them dry. Her mind gave away nothing, no strong feelings or stray thoughts. In a place like this it was possible there wasn’t an alchemic-free thought in her sluggish mind, but it was surprising all the same.

“Sorry, love, I’m not in the mood,” I said, watching the dealer’s fingers deftly slip a card to an accomplice from the bottom of the deck. He was a very good cheat, but I had been taught by the minds of masters. I glanced at my cards. It was a damn good hand but his accomplice would have better. I frowned at the dealer. “Fold.” He gave me a sick smile and started sweating.

The woman at my side gave a throaty chuckle, then leant in close to whisper in my ear. “You couldn’t afford me, Uncle Reklaw.”

I almost choked on my smoke, turned my head slightly to see Layla’s raised eyebrow, the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. She was wearing a tight fitted dress that showed a lot of leg and a hint of cleavage, positively modest for these parts, but far from how I’d seen her last.

“So, what brings you here?” I said. “Didn’t take you for the carousing type.” The dealer flicked out another round of cards, no cheating this time. I had good odds of an excellent hand. I tossed gold into the pot.

“Do I look like an old maid to you? I’m here to meet a man.”

I tapped my nose. “Point taken. I’m to keep this as our little secret, yes? I doubt your mother would approve of this place.”

“You had better. Don’t worry, at the first sign of trouble I’m out of here.” Then her voice hardened. “So this is why you returned? Gambling and drinking?”

“Hardly.” I leant in close. “That tub of lard at the side there, dicing with his friends – he’s cheating on his wife. Mind you, she’s spreading her legs for the lanky fellow sitting next to him, so she’s no better.” Layla looked surprised, but I still felt nothing from her. She was as controlled as any magus. I nodded to an older man in velvet coat and tunic smoking an ornate pipe, his pupils dilated and his mouth slightly slack around the stem. “Him, he’s a syndicate gang boss working with the Harbourmaster. Some of his best men disappeared a while back after they tried to break into the mageblood trade and he’s never quite recovered. He blames Charra in public but actually fears that it was the Skinner. No proof though. People disappear in the Warrens all the time, especially these days.” Him I was paying particular attention to. When he left I was going to follow and force him to answer all my questions.

“How can you possibly know all of that?” she said.

The dealer flicked out more cards. One of my opponents folded, but the other two slid piles of coin in. One seemed unsure, but the other exuded a quiet confidence that he was very good at hiding behind a twitch of fake worry. Not skilled enough though. I chucked more coin in anyway, calling their bets.

“I’m very good at listening,” I said to Layla. “Most people hear but few listen.”

The unsure man opposite laid his hand out. Two middling pairs. I made a show of scowling at my cards to waste just enough time and draw enough attention to me – the trick wouldn’t work otherwise. Then I spread my hand out on the table. “A high court,” I said. People murmured in the background, every eye in the room lingering on the large heap of coin at stake. All eyes turned to the fake worrier.

The man smiled broadly and finally spread his cards out. “All High Houses,” he gloated. “I win!” He reached for the pot.

I cleared my throat. “What are you talking about, pal?” I tapped one of his cards, setting off the temporary glamour I’d placed in it earlier. “That’s a two, not a high house. Just what are you trying to pull here?” Through some quirk of fate his high card seemed to have changed into a two for the observers. Almost without exception, people saw what they expected to see, and I had just given them a little nudge: part deception, part subtle magic.

He gawped at his card, picked it up and stared at the dealer, a question on his lips. Oh-ho, the crowd caught that look and a murmur of disquiet stirred as they looked between the two. The dealer turned to the sniffer, who stared at me trying to sense if I was using the Gift. The sniffer shrugged and shook her head. Beads of sweat appeared on the dealer’s forehead and a sickly smile grew. “Another round?”

“Nah,” I said, “don’t want my luck to turn.” I scooped up the heap of gold and silver, then turned to grin at Layla, but she’d already slipped away to find her lover. I packed away my winnings, pouch bulging at the seams.

A woman screamed. A tray of drinks crashed to the floor. One of the serving girls stood staring down at the twitching corpse of – ah, shite! – the gang boss slumped over his table, pipe still smoking. Blood oozed from a small wound between the base of the skull and the spine. It had been precise and quick, with minimal blood – this wasn’t a mere stabbing, it was an assassination. And what’s more, they’d used my game as the perfect distraction.

Layla was nowhere to be seen. Paranoia reared its head. Oh gods, was she safe? Then I spied her over by the far wall, unharmed and with a half-empty goblet of wine in her hand. She shot me a worried look, set it down and then slipped out of the door while everybody else was busy gawping. I sighed with relief; it was just another ganglands killing, they were not here for her or me.

The crowd edged forward to examine the body, prodding it out of morbid curiosity. Me, I tied the cord of my money pouch around my neck and tucked it beneath my tunic and used the distraction to slip out of the door before it got ugly. I was carrying a lot of coin and people might soon notice that unfortunate two now looked awfully like a High House card. I breathed a sigh of relief as I stepped out into the shadows, fumbling in my pockets for a smoke as the door closed behind me. Whoever had offed that gang boss had been good, and I’d had my back to them the entire time. Even with magic-wrought heightened senses there had been no–

My senses screamed a split-second warning before a hand clamped around my throat and pulled me backwards into a side alley. He stank of stale sweat and tarred leaf. Thick, calloused fingers squeezed. My head went tight and hot, pulse pounding. I flailed, ramming my elbow back into a man’s hard stomach. He grunted but the grip didn’t loosen, squeezed even harder. My Gift opened on instinct, magic lashing out into his skin. I savaged his mind like a wild beast. He choked, fingers going slack.

I slumped against the wall, wheezing for breath. The dockhand I’d beaten at cards earlier stared back at me dumbly, drool running down his chin. He dropped down in the muck, gurgling, fascinated with watching his fingers move. His memory was shredded. Seemed he had realized that he couldn’t beat me and instead decided to wait outside to get his hands on coin in a different way. Too clever for his own good. Still, I’d been a blind idiot to walk outside as unaware as any innocent lamb heading to the slaughter. Even if I had been rattled by the assassination, there was no excuse. Too much was at stake to be that sloppy. I massaged my throat. It had been so very easy to break him. First the guards and now this… I seemed to have actual might at my beck and call nowadays, and it was thrilling.

I imagined the Worm of Magic’s serpent smile growing wider as it waited for me to let go of all restraint. I’m not sure I wouldn’t prefer it to be a real entity as opposed to something that only personified my own desires magnified through the lens of magic. Nothing is ever quite as terrifying as your own mind.

“Sorry, pal,” I croaked. Reducing him to that infantile state had been a step too far. Instinctive reaction or not, I was powerful enough that I could have and should have left him puking up and cradling a broken nose, or, oh I don’t know, given him a nasty memory of lusting after and sucking off a dog or something. That sort of thing could scar a man for life. I shook my head. It was a shame, but I consoled myself with the fact that he’d likely learn to walk and talk again, and he might even remember his own name someday. That was more than most people got in the Warrens. Usually it was a knife across the throat and a swim in the river. He was lucky really.

As I limped away into busier streets, three men burst through the door behind me, tumbling over the gurgling dockhand. I wasn’t in the mood for teaching them a lesson now, and after using magic, I didn’t care to linger. I slunk off into the darkness as they scrambled to their feet, cursing and kicking, looking around in vain for the man they were supposed to have beaten and robbed.

As dusk drew in I bought a packet of smokes and spiced meat on skewers from a cart on Fisherman’s Way. My teeth sunk into the hot meat, spicy juices dribbling down my chin as I wolfed it down while listening to a group of musicians drinking and playing on a street corner. Docklands might be squalid in comparison to the Old Town, but it was far more alive: a real and vibrant community in many places.

Whoever the Skinner was, he had nothing to do with the usual underworld strife. That lot seemed more on edge than anybody. When I met up with Charra tomorrow I hoped everything would slot into place.

As I passed the dark mouth of an alley something bright and fluttering in the breeze caught my eye. Hidden in the shadows amidst a pile of refuse was the green of a torn coat: fine Clanholds wool distinctively tailored by Arlsbergh of Ironport.

It was my coat.

I peered into the gloom with knowing dread. A man’s corpse lay in the alleyway… well, not a corpse precisely, more like what was left of one. Chunks of raw offal had been strewn across the cobbles and tattered flags of flesh and skin hung from shards of stone and wood gouged from the walls by massive claws. I squatted down and picked up a silver earring of twisted wire still attached to most of an ear. Arse. It was the boy thief’s earring.

I recognized the bite marks on a hunk of thigh, made by fangs the length of my hand. Shadow cats! Of all places, I should have been safe from daemons in Setharis. Lynas had seen shard beasts, and now these were here hunting for me. Somebody or something had to be protecting them from the city’s corrosive effects.

My plans were just grand in theory, not so great when I was confronted by my own bloody handiwork. Still, the lad had been no innocent and had dug his own grave, and not undeserved either. Such a waste of a life. I took one last look at the remains and then ran for the inn.

I kept Dissever naked in my hand and found my eyes flicking to every darkened doorway, every corner and pool of darkness, watching out for anything lurking in the shadows. How had those damned shadow cats located me so soon? It could take a week, usually two or three before they narrowed down my location, and this time I had travelled over the accursed sea, which should have made it more difficult. A thought struck me: with their master here, perhaps some of the damn things had never left Setharis at all, had sat waiting and watching all these years just in case I should ever return. If one knew I was here then the rest of the pack surely did. I would have to keep moving from now on. There went any chance of a good night’s sleep.

I blocked off the door to my room and carefully set an array of the nastiest wards that I could remember – things that would blast your mind and burn flesh from your bones. Only then, weary with the effort, did I shrug off my clothes, climb onto the pallet and pull the blanket tight around me.

My fractured dreams were stalked by a butchered boy in a tattered green coat running from shadows, and the night echoed with Lynas’ screams.