Ch.2: The Four Swords of Shadowvaster
from A Murder in Min'Krinath (2/6)
Recap: They thought they had gotten rid of the Murder Club seven years ago. Then, a body is discovered and a murder spree threatens to revisit the peaceful people of the Azurite Quarter. Shadowvaster investigated the body and discovered that she, Zahaza, had been sacrificed to Glasya-labolas, a demon of murder. Alas, she was not permanently murdered it seems. As the local clan bosses gathered to plan and prepare, Zahaza was resurrected. Rather than explain herself, she fled, leaving even her husband with questions. “Shaldo, you fool” was all she said.
They gathered in the maja house, its front door now bolted thrice over, and the balcony shutters shut, latched and cheaply warded. The regular patrons had stayed; others had organized themselves to escort each other. They sat at the bar with some more Hane Boys were posted about. Shadowvaster sat behind Bulrgam who loomed over Loozh.
Loozh, mystified and frightened, had come with Shadowvaster. Now that Zahaza had died and returned, there were questions, and he was closest to answers. Bulrgam was eager for answers. His black irises fixed on the little Lie Xi man, sitting in a chair among the potted ferns, his braced leg stretched out like a useless log.
“How does she know that name? She was just a girl and we told no one of that list. What kind of magics does she practice? What does she use it for? Is she a necromancer?”
Confused silence.
“Speak, man!”
Loozh shrunk back.
“This is not the way.” Kitan Ful pushed Bulrgam aside. She handed Loozh a hot spiced rum. “But questions timely need answers quickly.” She joined him across the empty maja board cradling her own steamed milk. “Tell us of Zahaza of late.”
Loozh downed the rum. Unsure, he began with their marriage:
Zahaza, daughter of the late Kakúr, was as restless in marriage as she was in courtship. Loozh was not knowing what that meant, only that she was always distracted. Elsewhere. The death of her mother?
Yes, Kakúr was a great loss, they all agreed. Shadowvaster, never having known the woman, was vaguely jealous. He tucked that away into a hidden pocket of his soul, where useless and weak things waited to be crushed.
“Restless as a washer woman,” Loozh continued. “Restless as a dyers-hand. Restless as a shop-clerk. She went places during the day when she should be at working, last boss told me.” Loozh would not know, spending all day in the sorting house, his back bent over tables of uncut gems, a permanent squint setting into his eyes. Shadowvaster had seen the look in many eyes among the sorting houses of the Tourmaline Quarter.
They had discussed children, and Loozh thought it was what she wanted—a proper clutch and a house in Northgate. But no, not now. She fretted for money. Then you should be at working, Loozh told her, revealing that he knew of her skiving. And break myself as it’s done you, she said.
“Always the young city-kin now-days, gold from nothing,” Kitan Hane grumbled at the bar. “Why so many youngs turn to sorcery.”
“That is alchemy,” Crastock said, his big voice low as to not disturb Loozh’s telling.
“Alchemists bolox too,” Kitan Hane retorted, less quietly.
“Caraza is alchemist.”
“Apothecaire. Difference.”
“She call herself alchemist.”
“Always too smart she was.” Loozh drained the now-cold rum, wincing at the spice-dregs and his own self-recrimination. “Too smart for me. Men of travel, she adored when we drink in the Opal Quarter.” A few eyes slid away. “She tells them tales—tales from her mother as her own. Many people she meets and tells them stories.
“Someone, I know, she met. An odd man. Lie Xi, not known among us. Hastraba saw them at her jejarishop on Savene.” That was the winding boulevard up the terraced mountainside of Northgate, where the modest wealth of the Azurite Quarter resided, and its immodest wealth lorded over those below.
“Twice she saw them there. He wore Human clothes, rings of gold; scales like blue opal; frills painted like a festival day.” The older Lie Xi grimaced in moral disgust—it was considered unseemly for men to preen their frills outside of the combats at the marriage conclave. Even among the city-kin it was gauche except for special occasions.
“And he rode one of those wheeled contraptions.”
Not uncommon in Northgate, Shadowvaster thought. They’re a poncey lot, up there.
“But strange it was. Some magic to it. And he had other friends, seemed so to Hastraba. Friends in groups, large sometimes but always coming up the steppes from Kada Round.” That was the old metal-works district with many vacant buildings and squatters of all sorts. Shadowvaster liked to peruse the remaining smiths there.
Loozh sunk into his seat, folding in on himself. “Is all I know.”
“That’s plenty to go on.” Shadowvaster looked to the group. “But who is Shaldo? He’s not clan?”
“No.” Bulrgam downed another shot. How many had he had so far? He seemed sober enough—his rage was subdued at least. “Most of the club were clanless city-kin, it seemed. Some known among us from around the Quarter, but not Shaldo. We found them holed up in a squat. After we did the deed, we found a list of names on a blood contract. It was in some human language, we thought. Murder Club of Glossy Labialists, they called themselves, like it was some secret fraternal order, one of those Brick Guild affairs.” He allowed himself a chuckle.
“Seems Shaldo was the leader. But we were never sure he was among the dead.” The uncertainty wearied the large, energetic man. It left him cold in the recounting. “Most were marked, just like their victims. Like Zahaza. Makes no sense. Lie Xi killing Lie Xi.”
By ancient custom and agreement mortal violence among the Lie Xi was uncommon, and murder rarely more insidious than a tussle gone wrong. “It’s a mess. It’s all a mess.”
“But they didn’t resurrect?” Shadowvaster puzzled over that one detail. Maybe Shaldo had learned a new trick. “Did you find anything else?”
“Papers. Spells. Research notes, maybe. But all in wizard-scrawl.”
“Bul’gam burned all as cursed,” Kitan Hane said. “Saved you none?”
“No,” Bulrgam replied testily. “Certainly wasn’t handing it over to the Spire.” By law, arcane materials discovered in the commission of a crime were to be handed over to the Castellan’s office. One of the few instances where the Wizard asserted his authority outside of tax season. His laissez faire attitude with law enforcement did not mean he was not watching, however.
“My Zahaza,” Loozh spoke up. He still trembled. Much of this would have been news to him, it seemed. “What to do with any of this? For memory of Verayal she would not.”
Shadowvaster wondered the same and could only come to one conclusion after what he had witnessed and heard in the Square, and Loozh’s testimony: Bulrgam’s suspicion was correct—Zahaza was already deep in with the Murder Club. Shadowvaster dared not mention it though. Loozh stilled loved her, blindly. Something stirred about in the pocket of Shadowvaster’s soul. The poor bastard.
Kitan Ful patted Loozh’s arm to comfort him. “Nothing. Ensorcelled can even the purest heart be. Sweet, Zahaza was always; and loved Verayal as a mother. Would not join with her killer.”
“Shaldo answer for his crimes he shall, certain.” Kitan Hane stamped his cane and his shriveled neck-frills rustled.
“We must kill him,” Bulrgam said in a dark tone. It reminded Shadowvaster that Bulrgam had first come to these shores from the Dominion on unsavory business—hints of Syndicate of Thon. Shadowvaster thought it best not to ask—reciprocal questions. “Kill him before he utters some malediction.”
“Smack the spells from his mouth,” Kitan Hane spat. “He lives, so know his history, his crimes, so never again. A ledger we build, then a scaffold.”
“Is that our way now?” Kitan Ful reminded them of custom. Even the death penalty was rare, meted out only by the Spire Wizards, and primarily for the clanless and foreigners. “Must Lie Xi die by Lie Xi hands? Like other peoples are we?
“Yes.” Bulrgam bellowed. He had been in Min’Krinath some fifteen years and had plenty of business with its people before that. He was respected here, but he was not Lie Xi. Even Shadowvaster was taken aback by the boldness. Kitan Ful and Kitan Hane bristled at his statement, but he barreled on. “We did it before.”
“And not again.” Kitan Ful stood, sentinel with her staff planted.
“I will if you cannot.” Bulrgam turned from Kitan Ful. “Shadow, this Glassy-ass Loblolly, what is its nature? Can it be killed?”
Shadowvaster had a sword for that, but he didn’t offer that knowledge to the group. Caught between the revered Kitans and his employer, Shadowvaster was wary of getting dragged deeper into the rift. Killing the demon was one thing—everybody could get behind killing a demon—but what of Shaldo and his club? Would Bulrgam call on him for that? Against the Kitans’ wishes? He decided on the truth, mostly. “Not by any of you.”
“Difficult then. It seems we must deal with this Shaldo quickly. If we do not, if we detain him and are careless, then we risk this demon’s wrath.”
“Maybe.” Shadowvaster shifted next to Bulrgam. “If Shaldo wears its sigil, then he may have some control. Bind his hands, gag him, and veil his eyes at least.”
“Kochal, the Keeper, she has magic-binding.” Kitan Ful said then turned to a large potted kavha fern and rapped it with her staff. “Tell her to prepare.”
An uninvited, white-furred, feline Urchin boy—a Moggie of Makanakhar—crept from behind the vase. His big eyes begged to not be snitched-out to his council.
“I will come to her.” Kitan Ful handed the boy a copper.
He leapt to a back window, flung it open. A Lie Xi girl waited there and they jumped down. The sewer grate below clanged shut.
“Kada Round, a solid lead.” Kitan Hane noted.
“Near where last we found,” Kitan Ful confirmed.
They made a plan: Kitan Hane and his people would search the abandoned places of the Quarter toward Kada Round. Kitan Ful would go to Kochal for magic-binding, then on to Hastraba’s for more answers. Crastock and Hartur would go with her for protection.
Shadowvaster and Bulrgam would escort Loozh home, on the chance that Zahaza would return. But first: a pack of murderous sorcerers with a demon possibly in play—the iron rod would not do.
Shadowvaster stood in his bedroom, the one small window thrown open to the rain and terrace wall. The stove pipe from the kitchen below kept him warm. He contemplated the four swords rolled out on his bed.
Life had been comfortable in Min’Krinath, he had scarcely needed to bring them out. He had not even told Bulrgam what he had done with them nor where he was from, and Bulrgam hadn’t asked. It was going so well.
Each was different: Demon Killer, the dark-iron scimitar, his first sword—his master’s old sword—the bane of demons. Yes, he would need that one.
Then the bastard sword, ShadowCutter. So named because the noble knight to whom it had belonged had gotten the better of him (Shadowvaster was hardly imaginative with his naming). It had good reach—always important.
Then the heavy cleaver, Thinstral’s Retribution. It had belonged to an orcish god of a dead people—a powerful weapon and nearly as tall as himself. Maybe too much for an urban setting. He would bring it, nonetheless.
Then the last: Black Unicorn—a short sword, silvery and slender as a stiletto with an enchanting abyss set in its fuller. Yes, this one for the necromancy.
Black Unicorn had been given to him by an avatar of Death. Shadowvaster owed It a service: a trail of dead in recompense for his unholy creation. Death had pursued him, picking off those around him because It could not touch him. It chased him to despair and forced him to drink deeply. They had reached an accord, however, in a shallow spring, deep in a forest of Anatna. Now, Shadowvaster could choose who dies to pay for his creator’s thievery.
They weren’t on intimate terms, but Shadowvaster imagined that Death would not appreciate the necromantic arts. He had yet to use the short sword, however. The longer he stayed here, the more he didn’t want to. Bringing them all would be too much—a clear sign to Kitan Ful the destruction he might sew, which he didn’t mean to sew. The scimitar and the Unicorn.
No. He could hear Bulrgam’s voice in his head—Bring them all—and in that dark voice find something of his old self, as if it rid him down no matter how fast he ran; hunted him out no matter what shelter he took. It would not have him. That much he thought he was sure of. This city had cast a spell on him, and he didn’t want to flee it in shame. But…
Best to dress for all occasions.
He smirked, then lifted the makeshift belt with his precious swords. He tied three around his waist, over his blue, sleeveless kurta, arrayed at the bottom of his spine with the short sword for his main hand. The cleaver went across his back. The iron rod still hung at his hip. He felt… pride? Despite everything he had been? Was that how pride worked, then? Like redemption. It should never go in the pocket.
He could stop himself if it got nasty.
He threw his poncho over all for the rain threatened to pick up. Then on his head, the extra-wide hat-of-the-unknown-owner, which barely fit through his narrow bedroom door. He laughed at himself.
They had distinct beats now. It was strange to him, feeling things with clarity. For so long it was sourness in his stomach and a hot brain—only thoughts of muddled rage, trapped on a threshold as his mind burned. A heavy stone he couldn’t move.
Now, he didn’t know what his insides were—calmness and bits of laughter bubbled up from that lightless pit. Would it break the spell if he asked too many questions of it?
Author Bio: BD Allen lives and works. He writes when the damn breaks.
Banner Art: Vrubel, Mikhail. The Demon Seated. 1890, oil on canvas. Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow. Retrieved via commons.wikimedia.org