Aliyah

Oh gods. Oh, hells. This was nothing like a necropsy.

Her first instinct was to dry-heave into her hands. She endured a few seconds of choking on her own breath before leashing the reflex away with what few remnants of magic she had left. The reflexive hyperventilation, though, she couldn’t quite tamp that down. Her breath came in shallow gasps. She stumbled away without thinking, until her shoulder hit the side of the alleyway. Her hand clutched at the wall to steady herself in face of memory—the feeling of blood rising in her own throat.

Her skin felt cold and pinched and buzzing all over. Her scalp burned with the ghost of a Calamistrum’s grip. She was consciousness floating in a fleshy shell, a grain of sand in a bottle. Everything had taken on a slightly dreamlike haze around the edges, but there was no mistaking this for another nightmare.

She fought to steady her churning gut, to slow her breathing as she scrambled for strategy. Focus. What now? She couldn’t turn herself in. She couldn’t act blindly. What would Zahir do?

Zahir simply wouldn’t have found himself in a situation like this in the first place. Hells—that was no use at all.

She brought a hand up to clutch at her head, stopping midway when she glimpsed the bloodstains.

Murderer.

Back in the kingdom, murderers were executed. Was it the same here? The fearful, animal portion of her brain was shrieking, scrambled thoughts bouncing off the insides of her skull.

Think, think. Calm down.

The Calamistrum’s runes were still active, forming glassy walls of silencing and inattention. That was good. The devices from which they plumed ran on without Sebile’s input, but they would run down eventually. If someone came from the other way, approached from Sebile’s end and saw—

She knelt by the body’s side, suppressing the urge to retch. There were no cylinders left on Sebile’s belt. Then she remembered the tinderbox and steeled herself to rummage through the inner pockets of her coat.

Tinderbox. Keys. A tube of lip salve. A leather pouch, bulging with coins. The remnants of a cracked gemstone. And a spare set of metal cylinders, bound together with string.

She took the cylinders and the needles back from the tinderbox and left everything else. She eyed the opposite wall of runes and took a deep breath before looking down to the cylinders. There had to be a simple mechanism, for them to have been deployed so quickly. She found it just as she’d found the clicking caps of the foam vials: a button on each end. From there, it was a simple matter of laying them out in a line and activating them one by one.

Runes flared. She could see them, clear as day, which was no reassurance. But, she reminded herself, she already knew they existed.

The inattention-field was a boon, but she needed to act, and quickly. Glancing around, she saw only dingy brick walls—the backs of…shops? Apartments? No people here to see. Being a murderer was a reprehensible thing, but—

A memory of a golden room, of a blade flashing down. She wanted to live. She had to live.

If a Calamistrum was as important as a Magician, someone would kill her for killing Sebile. Someone would find the body and recognise the face—she was sure of it. Once the other Calamistrums saw, what then? Would they cast their nets, start a hunt? If they put out a reward for information…

She mustn’t let anyone find out. She couldn’t afford to sneak through the city, evading an army of witches. She couldn’t get caught—not for her own sake, and not for Zahir’s either. Selfish reasoning or not, panicked rationale or otherwise, no one else was going to un-ransom Zahir from the schismatists—no one but her.

If he was even still alive.

She shook her head, grinding teeth together. Think about that later. One crisis at a time.

Where was Emil?

She started walking, shrugging her jacket off as she went. She wiped her bloodied hands on the lining, where the stains wouldn’t be seen. There was already blood along the shoulders, but there was no need to add to it. The Healer weave, next. It had been saved from the whole mess by being under the jacket. She used it to wipe her face. She thought of disposing of the jacket—but there were no bins nearby, so she tied it around her waist, over the conspicuously red Healer weave. Her shirt had rips where the spear had pierced through, but it would look fine from a distance.

…Probably best to burn it all. Later. All at once. For now, the outfit rearrangement would have to do. Best to avoid crowds. She likely reeked of blood and magic.

Would anyone be able to trace her back to this? Sebile had clawed at her skin in the struggle; shallow scratches stung where she hadn’t bothered healing them—not efficient use of her dwindling magic, not enough power to parcel out. It was likely that traces her blood lay beneath a dead woman’s nails. She wracked her brain for recall, half-whispered rumours: were there such things as real blood seers, or was that just an old tale?

Blood seer or no, the excised throat was telling. An injury like that was clearly a Healer’s—or fleshcrafter’s—fault. Could she have healed the evidence away? Sebile’s brain might be gone, but the outer tissues took longer to die…could she pour magic into technically-dead flesh? The thought made her stomach turn, but it wasn’t a terrible idea. She forced herself to keep walking until she found a corner.

Down the alley now, to the nearest right turn. The path spat her out on the other side, beyond the other wall of the inattention runes. She saw a clump of her own hair on the ground, where she’d detached it. She picked it up.

Not far off, the Crowfire vehicle lay tipped on its side. The fuel tank had cracked, and liquid pooled pink across the cobbles, like a lurid spill of juice. No blood, though, and no sign of Emil.

The spire people, the Silken Circle, the Calamistrums—whatever they chose to call themselves, they would eventually notice Sebile was missing. When they examined the evidence, they’d try to find the perpetrator. Would Emil, presumably alive and long-fled, count as a witness? How much coin would persuade him to come forward and talk?

A traitorous thought slithered forth: it would all be so much easier if he were dead, too.

Her hands shook as she backed away. She sharpened her hearing as best as she could, catching the trailing end of street bustle some ways off.

She was so tired. She didn’t have the head for fine detail, not now of all times. A thought occurred to her: deconstructing would be easier than fixing. Her mind skimmed over the spilled fuel, the broken vehicle, her own hair in her hands. This wasn’t a terrible idea either, but—but she’d have to be quick about this.

Would it buy her enough time to save Zahir? Maybe not. But she needed to try. She bit the inside of her cheek until it hurt enough to be distracting. She could meld flesh, but she couldn’t make it disappear. Not an entire body’s worth of it, anyway.

The pieces clicked uncomfortably, like glass fracturing in reverse.

She didn’t have the means. But there was a house of criminals that would—probably only a few streets away.

===

The sound of the main street was like a chattering river she could navigate by, so long as she stayed out of sight. Finding the House didn’t take as long as she had worried it might.

“Pay up,” the doorkeeper said.

“I can’t,” she said. She had the wooden unlocking charm in her pocket, but she doubted it would suffice. Besides, she needed it for her own use.

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The doorkeeper—what was his name again? Innis? Yennis? No, Ianis—Ianis simply shrugged. “No? Can’t let you in, then. Simple as that.”

“Is Kionah here?” she tried instead, trying to soften her voice, to sound less guilty than she felt. “I’m not here to buy things, I only—please, I just need to find Kionah.”

The walk here had steadied her panic, but her skin still tingled, feeling too-loose, prickling with awful knowledge. Had she really calmed down, or was she still in shock? The image of Sebile sprang to mind once more. Alright, then—not calmed down after all. She fought back tears and watched his expression shift from one of impassiveness to exasperation.

“How should I know? I open the door. You got folks waltzing in, thinking they can ask for a list of who’s coming and going—bloody idiot bastards. I don’t keep count. That’s not my job.”

“Please,” she tried. “I need help. You’re, um, well-acquainted, right? Surely you’d remember if she came by?”

Ianis snorted, shaking his head. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll give you this: you just about missed her.”

A thread of hope. She seized upon it. “Where did she go?”

He shrugged. “How should I know? Walked off with the Wickteseret girl. Could be anywhere by now.”

“Which way—”

“Bloody hell, I don’t know.” He made a gesture as if to wave her off. “You paying, or not?”

She took a deep breath. “Is Shasta in?”

Ianis eyed her harder, scowling faintly. “Shasta doesn’t want to be bothered.”

“He knows me. It’s important.”

He laughed—a short, dry chuckle. “Right, right. Pull the other one, little miss. Everyone knows him. Everyone and their mother thinks their freshest cart of pigshit is important. I’ve heard it all before, alright? Whine, whine, whine, all day long.”

“But I—”

“Go,” he said, and his tone shifted to one that brooked no argument. “I know Kionah knows you, and I know Kionah. That’s the only reason I haven’t sent you packing, got it? I’ll tell you this once more and only once more—Shasta’s busy.”

Ianis shifted, his posture suddenly alert. His hand came to rest lightly atop the dagger at his belt. She backed away. Desperation coursed through her veins at the memory of Sebile laying back in that alley, blood seeping into the brim of her hat. Could she risk trying to get past? Her magic ran so low…could barely stem the eager nosebleed from overuse…

She shrugged off her jacket and showed him the blood-soaked lining.

“It’s important,” she said again. “I’m here to…warn him. It’ll be his business, whether he likes it or not.”

Ianis’s eyes narrowed. He took a step closer, hand still on the dagger, and she forced herself to stand still.

“That’s fresh.” Not a question.

“Yeah.”

“Put that back on,” he said slowly. “If you’re bringing trouble here—”

“I need to talk to Shasta,” she gritted out. “Please. That, or tell me where Kionah’s gone.”

He seemed to consider it, looking her up and down. She put the jacket back on and held her hands out, palms-up and empty. “Look,” she said raggedly. “No weapons. Nothing. I’ll faint if I try casting another spell.”

He unsheathed the dagger and beckoned with it, shouldering one half of the door open. “You follow and keep quiet, now.”

Whistle House was as just as dark and smoky as it had been the last time she’d visited, every curtain drawn firmly shut. Ianis led her to the back of the main room, gesturing as he went. A forayer-looking woman noted the gesture and strode out to take his place at the door. He opened the door to at the far wall and motioned for her to ascend the stairs. When they reached the landing, though, he stopped her from choosing the door she knew led to Shasta’s quarters.

“Not in there,” he said reproachfully.

The other door led to a squat, shadowy corridor, lined with rooms along one side. He opened the first door along and flicked on the light.

“Wait here.”

The room was bare, unremarkable. Three chairs and a table. Empty crates were stacked in one corner. When Ianis closed the door, it clicked shut. She wasn’t sure whether that meant it was locked now—didn’t want to check and confirm if that were the case. She’d done all she could, and Ianis would surely be back soon, because the House wasn’t that big. Help was at hand. Keeping her prisoner would be more trouble than it was worth. They would, at least, send someone to ask about the blood.

Her thoughts flashed unwillingly back to Sebile, and her gut churned as she wondered if she’d been too slow, if the inattention fields had run down, if someone had already stumbled across the scene…

She pictured a group of witches standing over it—point-hatted heads bowed together in conference—and shivered.

Footsteps echoed outside. She tensed, then exhaled in relief as a familiar voice rang out.

“Aliyah, was it?”

The door flung open all the way. Something clicked, soft and metallic; her blood ran cold as she registered the sound.

“Huh,” Shasta said, lowering his pistol. “It really is you.” His other hand was holding a circle of glass up to his eye, and he gave her another glance-over before he stowed it back into his pocket. “What’s your business? Ianis assured me it was important.” He said that last word meaningfully. “Got coin enough to pay for my ear, or is my offer up for bargain?”

She swallowed hard. “Not your offer exactly, but I thought we could exchange favours.”

He frowned, bracketing an arm against the doorframe. “What kind of favour?”

Aliyah eyed the corridor behind him, the suggestion of silhouettes beyond. “I need to discuss this privately. Some streets away, in fact. There’s something you should see.”

A voice piped up from the shadows. “Should we inform Caius, boss?”

Shasta turned his head and scoffed. “No.”

The gruff voice made a throat-clearing sound. “Caius says you’re not to go out alone.”

“Caius can say whatever he likes.” He made a disgusted sound. “I’m just popping out for a chat, alright? I’m not a bloody child.”

“You’re a target,” came a different voice—older, chiding, not one she recognised. “With all due respect, boss—”

“Fine,” Shasta said, shaking his head. “Get Tomas.”

From the darkness came a sound of acquiescence. Shasta turned to face her again, tipping his head casually. “You about to lure me into an ambush, Miss Scionsong?”

She was fairly sure he was only joking, but perhaps paranoia was aptly-seeded throughout criminal minds.

“No,” she said. The image of a dead Sebile loomed again, making her feel sick. “It’s a…precarious? A precarious situation. Time-sensitive. I’ll have to—explain on the way.”

“Mysterious,” he remarked. “I like that. Good lure, if it is one. You know, about those forayers back in Saltstone—”

He cut himself off as Tomas appeared in the corridor, scowling meaningfully. Shasta sighed and shouldered him aside, gesturing for her to follow. Eyes traced their route as they left the House.

“Alright,” Shasta said cheerfully. “Where to?”

“It’s not far.” Aliyah swallowed her nausea as she turned and led the way. First turn on the right, and then…the alleys wound perilously, coated with sooty grime and not the scrawls of bored citizens. She’d scratched a line into the muck at each corner, just in case—wise in retrospect, because walking back felt worse, harder than finding her way here.

They were two and half streets away when Shasta spoke up. “Well, what is it? No ears here, I assure you.”

She could bring herself to speak. “I need help.” She hesitated, setting her resolve. “There’s, um. There was an accident, and—and there’s a body.”

Silence, and then—

“What?” Shasta asked. He jogged forward two strides to walk alongside, squinting at her with a disconcerting amount of scrutiny. “You’re serious? Did Kionah put you up to this?”

Her chest tightened. “No?” she said, risking a glance back at him. “It’s…I’m not joking, I need help. Didn’t Ianis tell you about the blood?”

“What? I thought one of those alley kids got the drop on you, not—” He shook his head. “Did Kionah—”

“I couldn’t find her.”

More silence, as he appeared to digest this. “So. This dead body. Anyone I know? What am I supposed to do about it?”

She blinked, lost for words. A bead of anxiety crawled up the back of her throat and sat there, twitching like an insect. “Y-you know. Hide it?”

“What?” he asked, barking out a laugh. “What the fuck? How would I do that?”

“You’re a criminal!” she blurted out. “You have a sword, a pistol. Surely you know—”

“I’m a courier,” he said, shaking his head. She wasn’t sure if he were on the verge of laughter or exasperation. “Emphasis on courier. All this?” He gestured at his holster. “It’s a deterrent, self-defense. I’m sure there are assassins for hire somewhere round these parts, but it sure as hell isn’t me.”

“But—” The words stuck in her throat. “You’re…you have that whole false-teahouse…”

“Okay,” he said. “Okay, fine. Maybe I could find a guy—but shit, I’m not one for clean-up crew. And, you know, maybe hiding the body isn’t the best idea. Accidents happen. And if it doesn’t look accidental, well—maybe hiding the body’s how you people did it back in your weird little kingdom, but Glister’s big enough that—”

They rounded the corner. Shasta stared and frowned, brow furrowing as he came to a stop.

“That?” he asked.

The walls of inattention runes had been a street away and they were gone now, regardless. She’d packed them away once she was done moving the body, done with her work. She nodded, pulse pounding in her throat as he peered through his illusion-breaking lens.

“Give me a look, boss.”

“Shit,” Shasta said, passing it over. “It’s real. How’d that happen?”

Tomas stepped around them. Her pulse hammered harder as he nudged a fragment of bone with the toe of his boot.

“Magic,” he grunted.

“Explain,” Shasta said, striding closer. White spell-light flickered to life in his hand, and he held it out before him to better view the scene. It seared away the kindness of the shadows. “Who—did you do this?”

The body wasn’t really a body anymore. Before them lay incomprehensible puddles of skin and fat and muscle spread over the alley floor, churned up as if by an explosion. The hat and cloak and all of Sebile’s hair was a pile of ashes a few streets away; the tinderbox, and the rest of her things, weighed heavily in Aliyah’s pockets.

Aliyah stood rooted in place, her senses screaming at her to run. Tomas and Shasta stood silhouetted in front of the body, limned in pale light. The illumination had stripped the alley of all ambiguity. Flight response surged, telling her it wasn’t her problem now, that they’d take care of it, that she could flee. All lies, of course.

She swallowed. Cold washed over her, as if she’d been cut open and left to freeze—as if every organ had been scooped out of her body, along with other, less tangible things. Morals, for one. Conscience. Integrity.

“That was the driver,” she lied, forcing her voice to steady. She gestured to the vehicle ahead. “He had a seizure. I tried…I tried to help—” Her gaze skipped over to Tomas. “—with an artefact in my possession,” she added hastily, “And…that happened.”

“Really?” Shasta asked, looking disturbed. “You killed him on accident?”

“Yes,” she said, biting back a flinch. “I—I told you there was an accident, didn’t I? I’m sorry, I…I didn’t mean to.”

“Not me you should be apologising to,” Shasta said.

The Calamistrum no longer had eyes with which to stare her down.

“I know,” she said. Her voice cracked. “I’m sorry. I know.”