Karys came groggily awake to the sound of loud knocking. She grimaced and cracked open her salt-crusted eyelids. Sunlight streamed into the room through the window above the kitchen stove.
“Fuck,” she groaned.
Her flat smelled horrendous, which probably meant that she smelled horrendous. The sackcloth from last night lay in a crumpled brown heap on the floorboards. She could not remember discarding it, but at least she had not dragged the flea-ridden thing to bed with her.
Another loud knock.
She sat up, causing every muscle in her body to protest. From head to toe, her skin was covered in a sticky film of sweat and seawater. Her hair clumped together like a crow’s nest—stiff as straw and hellishly itchy. She gazed around the room bleakly. The idea of getting up, of moving at all, let alone facing other people …
“Lady Deathspeaker!”
Mumbling obscenities, she stumbled out of bed.
“What do you want?” she yelled at the door.
“Marishka would like to see you,” came the cheerful, muffled response.
She can damn well wait. “I’ll pay her a visit this afternoon.”
“Lady Deathspeaker, it is already afternoon.”
Karys gave the door a foul look.
“Fine. Half an hour,” she said.
The young messenger sniggered. “It would be her pleasure.”
Twenty minutes later, damp-haired and scrubbed clean, Karys locked her door and dropped the offending sackcloth into the building’s communal refuse bin. Carillo was busy sweeping the stairs outside, and he grunted in greeting as she passed. Karys nodded to him. He wasn’t bad, as Old Market landlords went. His rates were fair, he kept on top of maintenance, and he minded his own business. He was also, as far as she could tell, utterly unfazed by her profession.
“Rough night,” he remarked.
You’re telling me. “I’ll drop the rent by your office tomorrow, if that’s all right.”
Carillo grunted again, which she took as assent.
It was a cool, bright day; the clouds smooth and blindingly white overhead. Gulls squabbled over food scraps from the day market up the road, and the smell of frying eel made Karys’ mouth water. The Second Mayor lived in Tomasia, only one district over from Old Market. She set off on foot, hoping to work some of the stiffness out of her legs. Awrigs and Hounds crowded the streets, and hawkers yelled out their prices. After the storm, everything appeared crisper, like the air itself had been washed clean. To the south, the sea gleamed dark blue over the red roof tiles of Scuttlers and Soresa Flats. Fishing boats dotted the harbour.
A lovely day. Karys tramped up the road. A pity she couldn’t spend it in bed.
Her destination lay two streets off the main thoroughfare; a leafy cul-de-sac that looked up to the scale wall in the north. Marishka’s house was the largest on the block, although not especially lavish. The building was double-storied and whitewashed, weathered with age and overgrown with flowering ivy. Honeysuckle draped over the eaves, humming with lazy bees, and rows of sunflowers formed tidy borders between fruiting persimmon trees. The Second Mayor liked her gardening. Karys unlatched the gate, letting herself in. A single white rabbit hopped across the well-tended path that led to the front door.
She rang the bell. A moment later, a large and extremely pale man appeared in the entrance.
“Ah, Deathspeaker Eska,” he said, with a pronounced Toraigian accent and a polite smile. “So good of you to finally show up.”
“Save it, Busin. I’m having a shit day.”
“She’s just finishing up with her earlier appointment.” He welcomed her in with a slightly mocking bow. “Who I would wager is having a worse day than you.”
As if to punctuate his argument, someone deeper inside the house howled in pain.
“Tea?” Busin offered. “She’ll eat with you, but perhaps, while we wait…?”
“No thanks. Who is the earlier appointment?”
“A mistake,” he said dryly. “Tolaz, Tolatz? Something like that. He was shaving money out of the care fund, messing around with some of the kids.”
Another shriek.
“Suspect he won’t be doing that again.” Busin led her into the kitchen. Oil sizzled in an old frying pan, and the air was rich with the smell of spices and tomato. “Sit, I’m sure they’re almost done.”
Karys winced as she lowered herself onto one of the kitchen chairs. The room was light and spacious, decorated in pale blue and white with paisley curtains and yellow ceramic crockery. Busin bustled about, finishing up the cooking, setting out plates and glasses. A second rabbit—white fur, pink eyes—sat in the corner. It blinked slowly.
“It’s been a while,” said Busin. “How have you been? How’s money?”
She sighed. “Mostly the same.”
“No big jobs?”
“Nothing that’s paid out.”
“Ah.” He glanced at her sidelong. “If you asked, I’m sure Marishka—”
A muffled scream penetrated the walls.
“I’m not that desperate yet,” said Karys.
No coincidence that the Second Mayor was holding Tolaz’s appointment when Karys would hear it. Unsubtle, as warnings went. Karys leaned forward and poured herself a large glass of water. This is what happens to people who cross me. As if the reminder was necessary. She did not react as the man’s sobbing apologies sounded in the passage outside. The front door opened and closed.
A minute later, Marishka appeared in the doorway to the kitchen.
“Hello, Karys,” she said briskly. “Sorry for the delay.”
Seventy, white-haired, and stout, Marishka stood amongst the most dangerous people in the city. She had deep-set black eyes and weathered walnut-brown skin, crinkled up under her brows and around her mouth.
“I trust you’re hungry?” She crossed the room and sat down opposite Karys. The rabbit hopped over to her feet; she scooped up the animal and set it on her lap. “Busin, how’s the food doing?”
“One minute.”
“Excellent. What a storm last night, eh? First real screamer of the year.” She settled into her chair. “A terrible night to get caught out in the rain.”
Karys shrugged, noncommittal. Busin brought over a bowl of eggs poached in tomatoes, peppers, and white beans, and a separate plate of fried flatbread.
“The tomatoes are from my own crop; we had a real glut.” Marishka leaned over to select a piece of bread. “You should take some with you. I can’t eat them all and we’re running out of jars.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it. Eat up.”
Karys’ last meal had been yesterday morning, and she filled her plate without reservation. The cumin-spiced sauce let off small curls of steam, and the bread glistened with oil and salt from the pan. When she cut into an egg, the yolk ran bright and yellow.
Marishka watched her eat, smiling slightly. She stroked her rabbit’s pale ears.
“I heard an interesting story this morning,” she said.
Karys swallowed a mouthful of dipped bread. “Oh?”
“Apparently Scuttlers was visited by a Lure during the night. A naked woman rose out of the sea, tempting the good people of Psikamit to a dance below the waves.”
Karys finished the last bite of her bread, and reached for another piece.
“I wasn’t naked,” she said.
At the stove, Busin snorted. Marishka tilted her head to the side like a quizzical bird.
“It’s hard to swim in a coat,” said Karys, straight-faced.
“What were you doing in the sea in the first place? I was under the impression that you and Coren planned to search the coast on foot.”
Karys looked meaningfully at Busin’s back. Marishka raised an eyebrow.
“One of those conversations, huh?” she said.
“I was just leaving.” Busin transferred the pan to the sink. “Enjoy the food.”
Marishka waited until he was gone, tapping her foot lightly against the leg of her chair. The undersides of her short nails were dark; from across the table, Karys could not tell if it was soil or blood.
“So,” she said, “what happened to him?”
It felt, somehow, that everything had occurred a long time ago. Karys outlined the journey to the beach, her observations, the decision to search the Sanctum. She described Oselaw’s death with terse precision, although within the sunlit kitchen the memory seemed hideous, newly profane. Marishka listened without speaking, mechanically stroking the rabbit’s back.
“You believe those creatures also killed the others?” she asked when Karys finished.
“I’m certain.”
“And you recovered none of their bodies?”
Karys pressed her lips together, then shook her head. “What were you thinking, using the Sanctum like that?”
Marishka leaned back in her chair.
“Convenient,” she said. “The place was empty.”
“Except it clearly wasn’t.”
The Second Mayor regarded Karys from under heavily lidded eyes. “So it would seem. But I was around in the years before the Ephirite’s purge reached Psikamit. I know what Lilikess was like, and this doesn’t sound like her work. Entirely too clean.”
“Meaning?”
“Just not her style, I don’t think. In Creakers, they talk about how she used her adherents as a type of living hourglass.” An ironic half-smile. “The lower floors of that stepwell? They used to flood with the tides. Bind a worshipper to each floor, and you can count the hours by their deaths. That’s how the stories go, anyway; I believe the practice was mostly reserved for specific festivals. Or when she needed to let off steam.”
“Inventive.”
“Theatrical. What you’ve described is not … ritualistic enough, I suppose. Besides, you’ll have to forgive me for doubting that a Bhatuma ghost ate my people.” Marishka’s eyes narrowed. “So, what are you hiding?”
Karys took a measured sip of water.
“You don’t believe me?” she asked.
“I believe that more happened than you’re telling me.”
“Well, if we’re talking about secrets,” Karys leaned on the word, “then why don’t you share what you’re smuggling?”
Marishka’s mouth widened into a smile, although her eyes never changed.
“All right,” she said. “Ever heard of necrat?”
“No.”
“It’s something like a delicacy. Comes from Toraigus, and Vareslian high society is already mad for it. Word reached our own shores, created a demand.”
“But what is it?”
“Oh, little yellow beads, a bit like caviar—Busin says it’s been made to look just like the sacraments he had to swallow as a boy; that’s how they’re manufacturing the stuff without drawing the authorities’ attention. My understanding is that the substance is derived from Bhatuma remains.”
Karys sucked in breath. “What, pieces of their corpses?”
Marishka made an offhand gesture. “Sort of. It’s hallucinogenic, apparently. Very pricey.”
“Embrace, if the Ephirite ever find out—”
“I assure you, that’s part of the thrill. That, and the inherent profanity of it all. Now, last night, what else did you see?”
Karys was struck by the absurd image of Vareslian nobility crowding around a rotting Bhatuma corpse, salivating, knife and fork in hand. She had long since severed ties with her childhood faith, but even so, she found the picture unsettling. She would have thought that, of all people, the Vareslians would be more reverential toward their dead emissaries.
“There was a Vareslian ship,” she said, pushing the macabre vision out of her mind. “It was wrecked just off the shore, outside the sea caves. I think they were in the Sanctum too, before they died. I could hear the echoes of their voices.”
Marishka chewed on the new information. “Interesting. Any idea what they might have been doing there?”
“I’m pretty sure one of them was an ambassador.”
“Oh, someone important.” Her hand stilled on the rabbit’s fur. “I wonder if they brought the horrors with them. Or if someone sent the horrors after them.”
Karys rolled her shoulders, loosening tension in her neck. “None of my concern.”
“Aren’t you curious?”
“I’m curious when I’ll be paid.”
“Ever the pragmatist, my dear.” The Second Mayor smiled more warmly this time. “The money will be in your account by tomorrow morning.”
“With hazard pay.”
“I’ll throw in a tip.”
Karys glanced at the clock, sensing that the conversation was drawing to a close.
“There’s one more thing,” she said. “I need a discreet mender for a personal problem; someone not affiliated with the College or New Favour. Can you get me an appointment? Take it out of my tip.”
Marishka’s gaze bored into her, but Karys kept her face still and impassive. After a pause, the Second Mayor nodded.
“Sure, but it’ll cost more than your tip. Twenty percent.”
Karys smothered a scowl. “Fifteen.”
The rabbit’s ears quivered.
“Twenty,” replied Marishka, implacable. “And that’s a favour.”
Karys gritted her teeth.
“Fine,” she said.
“In that case, let me see what I can do.” Marishka set the rabbit on the floor. She stood up with a groan, rubbing her back. “You should have an address by this evening. Excuse me for a moment.”
Karys glowered at her empty plate while Marishka went off to fetch her tomatoes. Bad enough that the Second Mayor had knowingly involved her in Bhatuma business, bad enough that the job had almost killed her, but to take twenty percent? A fifth of her earnings.
The rabbit stared at her balefully, its little pink nose twitching.
“What are you looking at?” muttered Karys. “I’m not doing anything.”
The animal scratched its ears with soft white paws, then hopped off toward the back door. Karys got up stiffly, her muscles aching. Well, if Ferain was good to his word, it would not matter anyway. Then she could be the one leaving Marishka a tip.
“Here we are,” said the Second Mayor, returning with a wicker basket. “As promised.”
“Thanks,” said Karys, sullen. She reached out to accept the gift, but Marishka did not immediately let go of the handle.
“A small word of advice?” The Second Mayor’s tone was genial. “When my people are keeping secrets? I tend to find out why.”
Karys smiled thinly.
“Good thing I’m not one of ‘your people,’ then,” she said. “Pass my thanks to Busin for the meal.”
The streets of the district were no less busy than when she had arrived, although the sun had shifted across the sky, stretching toward Downside—the College and the schools, the public library and the banks, all the oldest parts of Psikamit. Karys whistled for a Hound, catching the attention of a grey-haired, bandy-legged creature. Walking had done nothing to loosen her muscles, and she was tired now, weariness from the previous day dragging her down.
Marishka had scarcely seemed to care that Coren Oselaw was dead. Not that Karys had expected an outpouring of feeling, but Oselaw had worked for the Second Mayor since he was a teenager. That should have meant … something. She set the basket of tomatoes on the Hound’s seat, preparing to hoist herself up. On the other hand, Marishka wasn’t exactly the emotionally expressive sort, so perhaps she would grieve him in private. It just made Karys wonder, if it had been her slaughtered by those creatures—
Without warning, a hot stab of agony knifed through her brain.
She jerked. White lights shot across her vision, her skin burned, and for a moment her awareness of the real world blinked out—she caught a glimpse of a crimson hallway: the walls billowing like they were made from silk, the floor shining like wet glass. The smell of burned sugar. Then the vision vanished with an elastic snap.
Karys squeezed her eyes shut and shuddered for breath. Not now. The pain was already receding to a prickly ache behind her eyes, and the noise of the street had returned. Her heart pounded like a drum. Not now, not now, not now. Why did he want to talk to her? Was it because of the Sanctum? But how would he know that; it wasn’t as if—
“Hey, are you all right, sweetheart?”
Karys opened her eyes just as a tall, bearded man laid a hand on her shoulder. She flinched backwards.
“Get away from me,” she said.
“No need to be rude, I was only—”
“I’m not your sweetheart.” She turned away from him and climbed onto the Hound. Her skin was prickling; she felt too hot. The red tomatoes swam in her vision. “If I had needed help, I would have asked.”
“What is your problem?”
Karys leaned forward and murmured her address to the Hound. The man shook his head, baffled and disgusted.
“Bitch!” he called after her, as the Hound trotted away toward Old Market.
Karys barely heard him.