He waited until midnight on an unusually grim, moonless night. The air felt muggy and oppressive, and wherever he went, he could almost hear the shuffle of steps behind him (he looked; only darkness and silence). Turold mounted the stairs to the Sir Otrygg’s apartment and tried the door: still unlocked. Doubtless the Council and its scavengers had cleaned everything of value out by now, leaving little more than a ruined apartment. In this he was wrong. Most of the papers were still on the floor, along with the charred remains and several articles of clothing.
Even the stain of Sir Otrygg’s body remained just where he found it, roughly encompassing the late astrologer’s shape. What had he seen in the entranceway? It must have been her, the faceless woman. But had she surprised him, or was he hurrying to let her in? He would ask her tonight.
Clearly, she still lingered here, or was bound to this room by the astrologer’s magic. Why else had he discovered her behind the door, waiting and listening? He searched the rooms for any trace of her presence, seeing a face in every shadow, but only finding his own. No doors were locked or windows cracked open; it seemed she hadn’t returned.
The room felt heavy with secrets. What had these last days and weeks been like with the Astrologer Royal? Had he been slowly going mad in solitude? Or had someone hastened his end, nudging him over the brink? How long had the woman been with him? He couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being protective, watching over the body until someone arrived. Though she certainly wasn’t expecting him.
He sat in the darkness, letting these thoughts drift over him, thinking others. Midnight faded into one o’clock and still no sign of the woman. She may have seen him enter and decided not to risk it. Or perhaps he had chased her off for good? If so, she might be anywhere in the twelve provinces and twenty-nine districts, or even beyond the city walls. And he only had tonight.
He left the apartment and walked the silent streets of Old Town. By tomorrow he would have to tell Sonya Vasilyevna something: more lies, and once he ran out of those, the truth. He had nothing to lose either way. His career was finished, which anyone on the Council might have told him (and did, if he cared to listen). Finding a book wouldn’t change anything, even assuming Sonya Vasilyevna kept her word. The question is, would she?
She may have respected Hildigrim, even liked him in her way, but that never stopped her from voting against him. After all, she was one of many voices who sat in judgment when the Council reviewed his ‘crimes.’ And she made no effort to dispute their verdict: guilty on all charges, punishable by death. The accused, Hildigrim Blackbeard, is commanded to take his own life by whatever means he deems fit, at a time no later than two weeks from today.
Turold suddenly became aware of the figure behind him. It wasn’t a question of being distracted; no, he had expected a cutpurse on a moonless night. Only there had been no one behind him until just now, when he heard the faintest crunch of the blackguard’s heel. He paused to wheel around—and felt the knife at his throat.
“Keep walking,” the voice said. “Into the alley. Don’t look back.”
He obeyed, trying to guess the size of his assailant by the pressure of the blade, the length of his stride. Surprisingly, they gave nothing away. His opponent seemed almost weightless one moment, close-to-immovable the next. He allowed himself to be guided into the alley and there robbed—of what? Did a random thief care about half-written spells and the pitiful remains of his fortune (oh—and the worthless diary)?
“Why did you return?” the voice asked.
“Return? You mean—to the apartment?”
“Yes. I’ve been watching you. I know what you’re looking for.”
“It’s you!” he cried, almost spinning around, but the knife held him in place.
“Don’t look at me. He has a message for you; it’s why I’m here.”
“A message? Who?” and then, after a beat, “Sir Otrygg?”
“Of course. I know you: you’re Turold. He told me about you.”
“He spoke of me?” he asked, astonished. “Why—what did he say? I barely knew him.”
“He wanted me to give you this, but I didn’t know how. And then you came, and…I wasn’t prepared. You surprised me.”
She lowered the knife, repeating her plea not to look at her, but face the wall. He understood. She handed him a letter with no seal stained heavily with ink—and blood. He opened it, but the street (and the moonless night) was too dark to read by. He held it up apologetically and she made a sound which sounded like the difference between a sigh and a laugh. Sad, but amused all the same.
“Forgive me, this is no place for reading. I know a place we can go. I promise no harm will come to you.”
“But I still don’t even know…who are you? I only got the briefest look at you…and you’ll forgive me, but your face…”
“I’m Sir Otrygg’s sister. Or was, many years ago.”
“Was?”
“I’m not that person anymore. I’m not sure how much I should tell you before you read the letter.”
“Very well, lead the way.”
She wore a hooded cloak, and the shadows hid the rest of her face, though he could glimpse the exposed jaw line clearly beneath. Had she been disfigured in a ghastly accident? Or worse, tortured in prison? His initial fears that she was some kind of spirit were quickly displaced. She spoke, moved, breathed; all quite human.
“Follow me,” she said, whisking past him.
They traveled through deserted streets to a collection of hovels, stacked one on top of the other, most on the verge of collapse. Through stray windows, Turold could see the far-off stare of stolfell addicts as they wandered in empty rooms. Could that explain…was she one of them? But no, stolfell drove one to paranoia and various degrees of madness, but it wouldn’t disfigure her face. Unless she fell afoul of another addict?
“Quickly, in here,” she said, unlocking a door.
He followed her inside, a dismal room with a single table and set of chairs. On the table was a flickering box, though a second glance spied no candle inside. In fact, he had no idea what was creating the light, but it imparted a warm, bluish glow to the room. The woman turned away, keeping her back towards him. She set the letter on the table for him to read at his pleasure.
Taking a seat, he unfolded the letter and found only the faintest approximation of writing inside. It must have been written in haste (or madness). The opening paragraph said that Hildigrim Blackbeard had always trusted him, so he hoped he could rely on him now. He had run afoul of the Council in ways he couldn’t explain, nor could he give him a complete understanding of his dark exploits over the past decade. Instead, he urged him, in the memory of his dear master, to fulfill the following requests:
Some of my papers I’ve destroyed; others are stacked haphazardly throughout my apartment. Don’t let them fall into the hands of the Council. Keep them, burn them, do as you will; just don’t let them find a single one.
Oops. So much for that.
Next, I caution you not to share any of this information with the leading members of the Council. Not Lord Gramsteed, Lord Blatavasky, Sir Thomas Sorridge, Sonya Vasilyevna, or any of the others (I forget their names). Assume that all will betray you. If someone asks what you’ve found in my apartment, if I gave you any secret correspondence, or you know anything about my assistant, feign ignorance and say nothing! Not a word!
Again, a bit too late, though he would try to play dumb a bit better around Sonya Vasilyevna. Though the way she looked at you, like she knew your secrets already…
Finally, and this one will be harder for you to understand, but I beg you, do as I ask! I’ve sent Drifa to deliver this letter into your hands. If you’re reading this, I assume you’re together, hopefully somewhere in private.
Turold looked up at the woman, whose back remained facing him, her arms crossed. What was she hiding from him besides her appearance?
If you’ve seen her face you must have many questions. I have no time to explain. She can do so, if she chooses. But I know you can help her. I’ve supplied her with a blade. Take it from her and do as she bids you. Even if my papers are found and you tell Lord Gramsteed himself of our history, none of that matters so long as you obey her instructions.
My blessings go with you and I trust we shall meet again.
That was all. He continued to half-read the letter, stalling for time. Did she know what he said? She must, since she was complicit in the rest. But why the blade? What would she ask him to do with it that she couldn’t do herself? Or that Sir Otrygg refused?
“Have you finished?” she asked.
“Yes, just now. I can’t say I understand.”
“Of course. It must be very confusing.”
“Why me?” he asked, distractedly folding the letter. “Especially since we weren’t friends. My master knew him, but I…we had a misunderstanding and never spoke again. Until now.”
“Yes, he told me. And that’s why, or part of the reason he’s asked you. I’m sure you’ll understand in time. For now, I must fulfill my part of the bargain.”
She turned around, her head lowered, and removed a blade from her sleeve. She took a step forward and tossed it on the table, where it slid close to the nearest edge.
“And what should I do with this?” he asked.
“He couldn’t trust this with anyone else, you understand. Your master spoke well of you, and he told Sir Otrygg that should he ever need you, you wouldn’t disappoint.”
“Hildigrim said that?” he said, taken aback. “To Sir Otrygg?”
She nodded, and the light picked out half of her face: a lifeless, unblemished skull.
“And what does he want from me?” he asked.
“The one thing he couldn’t do himself. To kill me. It’s my wish, too. That’s why I’ve sought you out. I’m ready to die, to end Sir Otrygg’s mistake.”
