Alchemical symbol: Nickel [https://i.imgur.com/SX7htXR.png]
Nevin stood and waited. His arm ached. The barracks physician had inspected the wound yesterday, hummed and hawed and pronounced it satisfactory. Which meant after five days the swelling had finally subsided with no sign of infection. It still ached.
His commanding officer, Cole vai Phylaxes, Marshal of the Southern Ward, continued to read a thick file of papers. Unhurriedly he licked the tip of one fleshy finger and turned the page. Morning sun streamed through the glass window behind him. The polished wood of the desk gleamed in the warm light. The skin exposed by his receding hairline glistened with a sheen of sweat.
Nevin waited. If he waited much longer, he imagined his boots would leave a permanent dent in the thick carpet. A muscle in his jaw twitched. When his father, Lavan, was Lord, Cole would never have treated him like this. But then, if not for the Burning, Cole would never have been Marshal. His career had peaked a decade ago; he’d merely been in the right place at the right time, senior enough and competent enough to fill the post when it fell vacant.
But like it or not, Cole was in charge, so Nevin fumed and waited. With any luck, Cole had called him in to give him a new posting, in which case he wouldn’t have to put up with him much longer.
His gaze slid past the Marshal to the window. Below in the parade ground, common soldiers drilled with pikes, supervised by red-cloaked officers. Perhaps he’d be joining them soon.
He hadn’t minded patrol duty at first, for he was at least doing something useful, rounding up strays from the Chained Serpent, but it wasn’t the sort of work that brought promotion or respect. Three months in the slums was surely sufficient penance. Even a barracks assignment would be an improvement, as long as it wasn’t a desk job.
A pigeon flapped past the window, headed over the barracks north to the Crossway. The Marshal might be responsible for the Southern Ward, but his office was a long way from the slums. A long way from Andra and crooked tenement blocks, and Snakes, and scared girls with angry eyes.
Sleepless at night with his aching arm, Nevin had replayed the conversation with Thea a hundred times. He knew he shouldn’t feel guilty. Her safety wasn’t his problem; the slums over-flowed with misery, none of it his responsibility. One man couldn’t drain the whole bleeding cesspit.
A set of armour hung on the office wall, the style of helmet and detachable mask dating to the last century. Beside it a full-length red cloak formed the backdrop to a mounted set of long sword, short sword, and dagger.
‘My grandfather’s arms,’ Cole said. ‘He led at the Battle of Hincorn.’
Nevin straightened. At Hincorn, a Phylaxes troop had beaten off an attack by a larger norther force. The norther kingdoms had respected Athanor’s borders ever since, though recently there were rumours the king of Haven was raising an army. It might just be bluster, a bargaining chip for trade negotiations — or it might be more serious. There could be troop deployments, even fighting.
‘A famous victory,’ he said.
‘Routing a bunch of howling barbarians?’ Cole snorted. ‘So. Captain Nevin. Still haven’t tracked down those wolves?’
‘The beasts are elusive, sir.’
‘They might prove less elusive if you spent more time leading the hunt and less on your own business.’
Nevin had left Jerard in charge of the men for a few hours while he watched the building where the alchemist lived. But how did Cole know about that? Ah. Jerard must have been telling tales, the little sneak. ‘I’ve been following up on reports of Snakes, sir.’
‘Indeed.’ Cole smirked, as if he had his own ideas about what Nevin had been up to in the slums. ‘One might think you had a point to prove.’
Nevin swallowed. Some members of the House must have had links to the Snake gang that now they would rather forget. Not him of course, but as Lord Lavan’s son, he was naturally suspect.
‘These wolves aren’t a minor nuisance,’ Cole said. ‘I have reports of several bodies found partially eaten. Drug addicts and such, but still… There’s decent people too scared to go out at night. Last week, a child was snatched and dragged screaming down Cable Street.’
Cold gripped Nevin’s gut. Cable Street was in the industrial district, not on the outskirts. Perhaps the wolves were more dangerous than he’d thought. ‘Did the child live?’
‘I don’t know. Does it matter? In any event, that the wolves remain at large is somewhat fortuitous.’
Somewhere between the screaming child and fortuitous, Nevin had lost track of the conversation. ‘Sir?’
‘There’s a strange mood in the city lately. Rumours and such. Have you noticed?’
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
‘I don’t listen to idle gossip, sir.’
Cole leaned back in his chair. ‘Of course not.’ He sighed. ‘While avoiding idle gossip, have you perchance heard anything of a gang, or cult perhaps, calling themselves Black Crow?’
A black bird perched on a gallows — the picture flashed into Nevin’s mind. Was that what Cole was referring to?
‘This Black Crow nonsense.’ Cole eyed a fine sothron red lacquer box which sat on his desk. He moved it an inch to the left and straightened his paperwork. ‘We need to know who’s behind it, what they mean to do. If there is a risk of disorder, we may have to take firm measures.’
‘You want the patrol to look for people… painting crows on walls?’ Nevin frowned. It sounded as stupid out loud as it had in his head.
Cole grimaced. ‘I want the patrol to hunt wolves, as they have been. It gives you a good reason for being in the slums, poking your noses in dark corners. Track down the people behind this Black Crow. Find out who they are, where they meet, what they speak of.’
Nevin shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The soft carpet gave beneath his boots. He at least understood, more or less, what he was being asked to do, but not why. If people were indeed plotting some sort of rebellion, that was clearly bad. The city couldn’t take another round of violence and senseless destruction. But Nevin was a soldier, not a thief-catcher or a spy.
‘I can make inquiries, sir, but — slum-dwellers see a red cloak, they shut their mouths and walk the other way. They aren’t likely to tell me anything.’
Cole shrugged. ‘Pay informers. Arrest people. Someone will talk.’
Who was he meant to arrest? Slum-rats drawing on walls? Nevin opened his mouth and closed it again. Duty told him to shut up and obey orders. Though when the orders were so obviously stupid, didn’t he have a larger duty to the House, and to the city?
If he couldn’t find a pair of dire-wolves, and he couldn’t find Andra, then how could he be expected to find this Black Crow? It was impossible. Blundering round the slums would only cause trouble, then he’d take the blame for Cole’s idiocy. And if he refused, what then? He was damned either way.
‘But, sir—’ He swallowed. ‘Most officers do patrol duty for a month. I’m due re-assignment.’
‘Now, Nevin.’ Cole shifted the red lacquer box another half-inch. ‘You understand the situation is difficult. The House can’t just forgive… recent events.’
Recent events. Nevin was hard put not to sneer. And forgiveness for what? Obeying orders? The deaths of his own soldiers, torn apart by the explosives they’d carried? Being on the losing side? Being his father’s son?
A small calmly rational part of him knew full well how useless it was to protest the unfairness of it all. The world wasn’t fair; neither was the House. Whining would change nothing.
Cole cleared his throat. ‘I’m entrusting you with this duty, Captain, because I know you’ll take it seriously. Dig up this evil brewing in the slums. Serve the city well, and your next posting could be to the border, or — well, whatever you prefer.’
Nevin stiffened, hearing the unspoken alternative between the words. Patrolling the slums was bad, but he could be guarding convicts in the mines or playing sentry in an ice-bound outpost.
Under the circumstances, there was only one possible answer. ‘Yes, sir. I’ll do my best.’
Alchemical symbol: Antimony [https://i.imgur.com/7omjkx8.png]
Andra slunk between the angles and walls of ruined buildings. The two men strolled ahead of her, shadows long in the afternoon sun, and as they walked they talked in low voices. One of the men was her prey, the marked one, tall and heavy-set. He walked with a rolling gait, sure of himself yet watchful, eying the street ahead and on either side. The shorter man had a quick jerky stride. He often laughed.
She had seen these two together before. The short man she did not think was a marked one. The marked ones were generally taller, more confident. Clothing covered his arms though — she couldn’t be sure.
The two men crossed a square and approached a building, roofless, with three standing walls blackened by fire. Two pillars flanked the doorless entrance. They went in.
Andra hunkered behind a half-collapsed wall, where she could see but not easily be seen. The men remained out of sight. A drowsy fly buzzed round her head.
She didn’t like this place, with its smell of burning and death. It was too close to the Chained Serpent, or where that used to be — only fallen walls and a great hole in the ground remained, loose stones crumbling into the caverns beneath. Even to think of it, to remember, brought a hard pain in her chest and throat as if she would choke.
The night it ended came back to her in dreams: the earth trembling in terror beneath her feet, the fierce brightness leaping from roofs and windows, the hungry roar of fire-driven wind. The screams.
Months later, only a desert of charcoal and rubble remained where buildings had once stood. The people had moved on, and left the ruins strangely empty. It was an emptiness Andra ought to welcome, yet she found herself uneasy. The quiet felt wrong, as if ghosts walked the shattered streets.
Soft footsteps alerted her to someone approaching. Andra tensed and peeked round the rubble.
It was a small woman. Clothing hid her hair. She walked slowly, pausing often to look around. When she saw the building with the two pillars, she stopped, again looking around, reluctant to move. Until finally she made a decision, strode between the pillars and vanished from sight.
Andra slumped back into her hiding place. She had watched her prey for days. She had watched him at home with the old woman and the baby, and once with a young woman, the child’s mother. She had watched him by night and day, alone and in company, followed him for miles across the city.
She had learned his habits, his manner of walking, of standing, of speaking. Most humans looked alike to her, except for differences in height and hair colour. Him, though, she would know anywhere.
All this time and effort, yet he had not led her to other marked ones as she’d hoped he would, and she grew impatient. Each day she watched, she remembered the wrongs done to her by men like him. Each day she hoarded her hunger and her anger, and thought of blood.
Blood she was owed. Blood she would have. Soon.