The Traitor God

Chapter 6

No words could fully convey how good it was to see Charra again. Memories of the old days had carried me through my exile and I couldn’t help but think back to when we first met. Those were better times, or at least they had been for me. For Charra, up until then her life had been filled with pain and starvation.

When we first met Charra she had been a skinny little wretch sprinting down an alley, bare feet ankle-deep in slush and snow and wearing not much of anything, her lips an unhealthy shade of blue. She had seen us running towards her and slid to a precarious stop. With her escape route blocked she’d started to panic, a rusty knife brandished in shivering hands. Lynas and I had not fared quite so well: startled, we slipped on the ice, ending up in a crumpled heap atop a pile of yellow snow, but miracle of miracles, we managed to keep the jar of rum and the hot joint of roast pork safely cradled in our arms. We’d much preferred scrapes and bruises to fouling our food. As usual I’d cajoled Lynas into being the lookout, but it hadn’t been one of my better planned heists.

Angry shouts of “thieves” and “get the bitch” came from opposite directions of the alley. We all looked at each other incredulously.

“Well, shite,” I said.

“Of all the poor luck,” Lynas added. “I told you I had a bad feeling about this one.”

Charra’s eyes flicked to the steaming joint of meat and then back again. An unspoken agreement flowed between the three of us. “Through here,” the girl said, darting through the open door to the child’s house. Right from the start Charra had proven herself to be the most quick-witted of our trio.

We darted through a mouldering room choked with children and swept through the curtain into the next home, ran past a yelling old man and dodged an angry woman with a bloodied butcher’s knife in hand, and then we were out into the adjoining alley. Our feet pounded the icy cobbles as we sped away, laughing as our pursuers got snarled up in the angry mess we left in our wake.

The girl took a sharp left and drew up to a ruined area of tumbled stone and charred wood that had been claimed by a blaze the year before. It stank of rotten eggs. A drove of swine snuffled across the area, grunting and munching on scraps of waste food people had dumped. Nothing went to waste in Docklands and it made for fat, juicy pigs. The drunken swineherder was taking a piss and paying us no notice.

She squeezed into a hollow between stone foundation blocks and disappeared down into a dark cellar space. Lynas and I exchanged glances and I dived into the hole after her, back scraping across stone. Lynas, running to fat even then, got himself wedged and it took both the girl and me to dislodge him, mere moments before the angry voices caught up with us.

They harassed the oblivious swineherder then searched the whole area while we hid in that dark hollow, hardly daring to breathe until a blizzard forced them to give up the hunt.

We waited there for a good few hours until the blizzard blew itself out, crude but strong dockhouse rum warming our bellies, scoffing down chunks of juicy roast pork. For us it was a fine meal, but for that starving waif, on the run for who knows how long, it was a feast. To pass the time Lynas and I ended up exchanging stories with that half-frozen little street rat who said her name was Charra. At first she hadn’t believed two such raggedy urchins were Collegiate initiates, and then she had been scared of our magic, but we were far from typical Old Town slicks. She quickly warmed to us, especially Lynas for some reason. Which had irked me at the time. Oh, sure, he had thought to give her his warm cloak, but I’m positive I would have thought of that too.

One thing we had quickly learned about Charra was that while she was a thieving little scoundrel, to friends her word was as iron. It was as if friendship was a novel concept to her, and a thing to be cherished.

Charra’s hacking cough shook me from my reverie. It was worryingly reminiscent of her lingering illness all those years ago when I’d made my deal, but the cellar was dusty and stale and irritated my own nose and throat.

She pulled back an oil-cloth from a pile of junk and I began removing old chairs, sacks of skimpy costumes and an assortment of mops, buckets and brooms. I tried not to think about Charra in costume as I delved deeper in the pile.

There it was: the accumulated detritus of thirty years of my life fitted into a single small heartwood chest hidden away in a forgotten corner of a dusty cellar. I was glad she had kept it safe, even after the fire that had gutted her old property.

I ran my hands over the smooth, dark wood. It bore a few blackened scars but was otherwise intact. I sighed in relief, hadn’t realized how much it actually meant to me until right then. It was the only thing I had left from my father, a gift given to me on the first day of my entrance to the Arcanum. That dour man hadn’t really been able to afford such finery on a dockhand’s pay, but hadn’t let that stop him. Never one to talk about his emotions, this had been his way of showing how proud he was of his son the magus. He was the sort of man that wouldn’t let sleep or food get in the way of something he deemed important. He had worked his fingers to the bone to buy it for me. I hadn’t appreciated it back then, brat that I was. My heart was heavy; I missed my old man.

The fuzzy warmth gave way to bitterness. Life as an Arcanum initiate had been harsh for a Docklands boy. I was not one of the old guard of High Houses, old money and political “scratch my back” and the others had made sure to remind me of my place at every opportunity. As a magus I hadn’t been better than them, but I proved much, much, nastier.

My wards were still in place, still potent and lethal. In the Collegiate you bloody well learned to protect your belongings early on.

I felt Charra behind me, peering over my shoulder. “So what do you have in there?” she said. “All these years I’ve been wondering…”

“Thanks for keeping it safe,” I said. “But be very glad you didn’t try to open it.”

Charra shrugged. “I’m no fool. When a magus tells me never to open something, not ever, I listen.”

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.”

Not likely, there would always be some magi with debts to pay, me for example.

“I had thought that somebody might have eliminated the competition,” she continued, “to hold back the supply and inflate the price. But that appears not to be the case.”

I chewed on my lip. “Somebody must be stockpiling it then. But why? And how is that linked to the murders?” I took a deep breath before broaching the next subject. “Charra, blood sorcery is said to be more powerful if you use the blood and flesh of close kin in the same ritual. About Layla…”

She coughed, then noisily cleared her throat. “Somebody already tried to abduct her. Coincidence perhaps. They failed, of course; I had her trained by the best weapon masters gold can buy. More people than usual have gone missing in the last few years.”

It was as I’d suspected, and explained all her guards. Coincidence be damned, Charra was taking no chances.

She looked me straight in the eyes, trying hard not to cry. I couldn’t remember Charra ever seeming this vulnerable before, but when I first met her she hadn’t had much to lose. “Walker, you can’t help us. You are a swindler and a trickster. If the Arcanum can’t do anything to stop it, then what help can you be? I lost Lynas. I refuse to lose you too.”

I had never given Charra an honest idea of the horrors I could unleash if I really let myself go, and even I didn’t know the full extent of my power. Nobody would feel comfortable around somebody who could rearrange their mental furniture at will, and I’d always felt the fearful eyes of other magi on me, waiting and watching for me to slip up and reveal the corrupt nature they all thought I had. I had always kept my Gift reined in, refusing to give them a reason to destroy me.

“You think I haven’t learned anything these last ten years?” I said. “I’m not the same man I was back then.” New hope kindled in her eyes. Sadly, I’d barely used any magic in my exile, just a few subtle suggestions and adjustments when absolutely necessary. Still, Charra didn’t need to know that, and in any case she really did not need to worry about me. The deal was off and I was done holding back, done pretending I was weaker than I really was. I hoped for the Arcanum’s sake they stayed out of my way.

I sniffed and swallowed, cleared my throat. “I’ll need to see where Lynas’ body was found,” I said. It was too unsettling to say “skin”. A twinge of pain burned up my arm, right where the knife cut into him.

“I’ll take you there myself,” she replied.

“Don’t suppose the Arcanum and the wardens have found any clues yet?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“The lying wardens tried to claim that the Skinner strikes at random,” Charra replied, kicking an old bucket clear across the floor. “As if he wasn’t purposely targeting people with magic in their blood. And Lynas’ three assistants just happened to go missing the next day?” She scowled. “They didn’t get off their fat arses to investigate his death properly. The Arcanum is supposed to regulate magic and punish its abuse, and yet they sent along a sniffer and a magus just graduated from the Collegiate. Mewling children with fuzz on their cheeks! I pulled some strings and called in a favour to get Old Gerthan himself down there to take a look.”

I nodded. “Old Gerthan is skilled.” Not the best, mind, but a well-respected mid-level magus in the hierarchy of the Arcanum. It was a higher rank than they would ever have allowed a political cesspit like me to reach even if I had the might. He was old right enough, both in looks and actual age, but unless things had changed in my absence then he wasn’t yet an elder or an adept who had mastered multiple paths of magic like most of the Inner Circle.

“He found little,” Charra said. “No evidence or any identifiable traces of magic, just a general feeling that blood sorcery had been used nearby.”

Looking back to the open chest I licked my lips and stared down, hand poised to reach in deeper. A few bits of junk, a stack of leather-wrapped journals and a wicked knife of what looked like black iron, but was nothing so innocuous. Dissever was a torturer’s wet dream, a thing of black twisted barbs and serrated edges, and somehow it had escaped its leather sheath. There had been times during my exile when having such a dangerous weapon would have saved me a lot of pain, but I hadn’t known if the Arcanum sniffers could track down the magical signatures of such a unique weapon, and I couldn’t take the risk of being found and dragged back. My hand still hovered over the chest, part of me torn, wanting to leave it be.

I felt sick, but I would need every weapon I could lay my hands on to avenge Lynas. I wrapped my fingers around the hilt. Pain stabbed through my hand, bloody welts and cuts bursting across the skin. It felt strangely familiar, almost like… I grabbed a hold of the slippery memory, another missing fragment of my deal, and ripped it from its prison:

The blade jars against bone and I have to brutally wrench it up and down to saw my way through, working the cut down the centre of the god’s chest until a ragged red trench splits it in two…

The mounting agony drove it back into the secret places inside my skull. I gritted my teeth and lifted out the squirming knife, feeling like the skin was being flayed from my hand. I supposed I deserved a little pain after locking it away in a box for ten years. Charra gasped, but again wisely kept her distance.

“Nice to see you too, Dissever,” I growled, as rivulets of blood wound down my fingers and seeped into the hungry hilt.

The pain receded, leaving my hand stinging from a multitude of abrasions and shallow cuts. It was a strange feeling to be chastised by a knife, but then Dissever was not any kind of normal blade. It didn’t even behave like any other spirit-bound object I had heard of. Powerful enough, perhaps, to kill a god?

Forging spirits into objects was on the level of godly powers and the oldest and greatest of spirits. Oh sure, with objects like my old coat, certain supremely skilled magi artificers could, with almost-prohibitive effort, give it a sort of crude mechanical reaction, but not actual life. Spirit-bound objects required a pact with the spirit involved and that bargain usually expired with their human owners, freeing the spirit once more. But not with Dissever, oh no! My thoughts drifted back to childhood, to two terrified boys exploring bone-crusted catacombs and a knife that had been buried hilt-deep in a corpse for ages unknown. A shiver rippled up my spine as my mind veered away from the darkness below. It was not something I wished to dwell on. Whoever created Dissever clearly had brutal murder in mind.

“Hope you enjoyed your rest,” I said to it. “Because we’re going to kill somebody.”

A wordless hunger answered me, followed by actual words: Feed me, you odious cretin. Dissever always had been an exciting conversationalist. Which was another interesting discrepancy: I’d never heard of spirit-bound objects talking to their owners.

I very carefully sheathed the knife and looped it onto my belt, mentally urging it to behave. Then I retrieved the loaded dice from the front of my trousers and the lock picks from my boot, squirreling them away into the much more comfortable hidden pockets of my coat.

“Now I’m ready to go,” I said to Charra. But I wasn’t, and the thought of walking those streets where Lynas had fled in terror from daemons and then died brought me out in a cold sweat.