"Take a look for yourself, Inspector Ballatore, if you can't take my word for it."
The stench of the river, the fetid smell of stagnant, polluted water, seemed to not only permeate Jacques Merlot's shack but the man himself. Merlot was allegedly a boatman for hire, more commonly a river scavenger who, vulturelike, combed the water for valuables that might be cast adrift--and according to Danae, when business was bad on the water he'd come ashore to do his scavenging in the graveyards. Body snatchers--"resurrection men"--typically did their work on behalf of medical students rather than sorcerers, but the grisly trade was not one to encourage finer sensibilities in its practice.
"Go on, why don't you!" Merlot insisted, thrusting his calloused hand towards the open shack door.
"Thank you; we will."
The door swung into the house with the hinges on the left; Ballatore nudged Riesling with his shoulder to precede him into the shack on his right side. He was a half-step behind her and, even as she stepped in, he suddenly drove himself hard against the door. There was a yelp of pain as the door crashed into the man hiding behind it.
"Filthy pig!" Merlot cursed even as his brother Paul staggered out from his hiding place, shovel in hand.
Ballatore whirled to face the doorway, keeping both boatmen in sight while he drew his sword. The standard blade of a Watchman was a short saber not unlike a sailor's cutlass, well-suited for close-quarters combat in cramped conditions like Ballatore now found himself in. Riesling had moved into the shack behind him.
"The next time you try to ambush someone," the Inspector said casually, as if in complete control of the situation, "don't try it on someone who knows there are two of you--and don't hide behind a door with gaps between the boards your victim can see through."
As for why they'd ambushed him, that had been obvious the instant he'd stepped through the door. The object of the brothers' work the previous night was still lying, half-wrapped in sacking, in the middle of the floor. The law tended to look askance at freshly dug-up corpses.
Paul Merlot shook his head, clearing the cobwebs from the Inspector's charge, and raised his shovel for another attack. His brother had produced a long, thin knife and was blocking the exit. Neither seemed impressed by Ballatore's saber, and utterly ignored the unarmed Riesling.
Paul swung the shovel in a massive overhand blow like an axe. Trying to parry would just snap off Ballatore's sword-blade, so instead he ducked left and let the shovel's edge rebound off the bare wood floor from which it carved a gouge. It would have been the perfect chance for an easy counterattack, but the Inspector had to pass it up to block a knife thrust from Jacques.
That was the tone the fight took. Both boatmen were experienced brawlers and street-fighters, and while neither individually would have been a match for Ballatore together they kept him too busy fending them off to get in a solid hit in return. It was touch-and-go, and whether they'd have worn him down or whether he'd have been able to take advantage of a clumsy mistake to turn things in his favor was an open question. Thankfully, though, it was a question he didn't have to answer.
Riesling hadn't pitched into the physical fight, but while Ballatore kept the Merlot brothers at bay she was free to use her magic. The Hades Gate was her best Rune and she used it quickly, completing it in under a minute. In another couple of minutes she could have strengthened the Rune and called up phantoms, ghostly knights who made effective shock troops, but the Inspector needed faster help than that, so she instead summoned a ghost. The dancing blue flame cast its eerie light through the dingy hut but the boatmen didn't slow their attack, figuring the best chance to deal with magic was to push on and kill the magician.
The ghost was not capable of inflicting physical injury without her using more magic to strengthen it, but circumstances had provided her with a better option. Riesling pointed at the corpse on the floor, and the ghost rushed to it, its flame pouring through nostrils and mouth. A moment later its eyes seemed to blaze up with ghost-light, and the zombie pushed itself erect, tearing free from the sacking.
"Protect Inspector Ballatore!" Riesling ordered, her own will communicating to her familiar which man was which. The animated corpse lurched towards the men and struck a great, clubbing blow at Paul Merlot, knocking him back into the doorjamb. Jacques stared in wide-eyed shock; the sudden horror broke his concentration in the middle of a knife-thrust, but his momentum kept him going and he ran himself onto the point of Ballatore's saber, which had been held low in readiness to parry. He made a wet, gurgling sound as his guts were pierced through, and then the Inspector pushed him away so that he slid off the blade and crumpled to the floor.
Screaming, Paul swung his makeshift weapon at the approaching zombie. The sight of a corpse he'd stolen risen up to fight him had driven the boatman into a fit of terror, and he struck with manic strength. The edge of the shovel bit into the zombie's shoulder, half-severing the arm so that it hung limply, but the undead creature did not flinch. Instead, its other hand clawed at Merlot's throat, seizing it in a fierce grip, and smashed the back of the man's head against the doorjamb. Riesling dismissed the animating ghost at once, but it was too late; the dead man slumped to the floor beneath the corpse of his killer and the scraping of his head against the wood left a long trail of red down to the door.
"I'm sorry," Riesling said contritely. "It's hard to order low-level undead to fight to capture. They just aren't capable of the finesse. I should have called it off faster."
Ballatore shook his head.
"You didn't do any worse than I did. I am supposedly capable of that finesse and I didn't manage to keep Jacques from ramming himself onto my saber. Besides, it's more likely than not you just saved my life, and I'm not such an altruist as to pick them over me." He cleaned the saber and rammed it back into its sheath. "Is there any chance you can get anything from the spirits?"
"I might get one back, but I doubt if I can compel any complex answers from him." Riesling sighed and glared at the bodies. "She could do it, I'm sure."
"Janice," he chided.
"No, I wasn't just being frustrated; I meant it. She probably could summon up a specific person's spirit to question them. Father told me that she published a paper about modifying necromantic Runes to summon a specific ghost, and only about four of the Royal Magicians could even follow it."
"Then I can only hope that Mage Consul Blan is having a better time of it than we are."
"Another dead end," Lillet sighed miserably. Water dripped off the brim of her steeple hat, a testament to the steady rainfall that had kept up all day long. "This has all been a waste of time."
"I wouldn't say that, ma'am," pointed out her companion. Constable of the Watch Jaymes Bartlett was a big man with a frank, open face who put Lillet in mind of a large-breed puppy. "After all, we have managed to arrest two fences and a trader in smuggled goods. Without your authority as a Court minister the Watch wouldn't have had the grounds to search their premises."
Lillet shook her head.
"That's all well and good, Watchman, but we're trying to find out something about the Theater District killer, not clean up members of the petty criminal underworld."
"Well, what about that medium, then, ma'am? Wasn't he a sorcerer?"
"Him? Oh, no. He practiced some very minor ritual necromancy and a lot of charlatan's tricks."
Bartlett scratched his head.
"Then why did you put the fear of God into him, if you don't mind me asking, ma'am?"
"As Mage Consul, I'm not just Her Majesty's personal advisor on magical matters, but the head of magical affairs in the kingdom. Tricksters like that just drag down all magicians by spreading superstitious nonsense among the common people. It's like you Watchmen. Yes, you represent power and the law, but your uniform is supposed to mean justice and protection, not fear. If one of you takes bribes or extorts money then it makes it harder for all of you."
Bartlett nodded slowly, then bobbed his head a couple more times faster, as the point sank in.
"Ah! I see what you mean, ma'am."
"Good. Well, let's get going; there's plenty of names left on the list." She started towards the carriage, but was halted by someone calling her name and booted feet splashing through puddles.
"Lillet Blan! Mage Consul!"
She and Bartlett both turned to see a man rushing towards them. He was relatively young, no more than thirty, with dull gold hair worn in tight ringlets falling past his collar like the artistically fashionable set did at Court. His coat, waistcoat, and striped breeches were of good quality but faded and worn, though the seals and fobs on his watch-chain were kept polished to a high gloss and the topaz stickpin in his cravat, its stone the same color as his hair, was a nice antique piece.
"Please...Please wait, Mage Consul!"
He raced up to them, muddy water splattering, then hunched over gasping for breath when he arrived, bracing himself on a walking stick that was obviously used for fashion rather than necessity given his lack of any limp or sign of injury while running.
"What is it, sir?"
"I've...I've been looking all over for you," he wheezed.
"Looking for me?"
"Yes. The word's been...that you and the Watch...are asking questions around the Quarter." He paused, taking several more deep breaths, then drew himself more fully upright as he recovered his wind. "It's about sorcery, isn't it? The theater killer?"
Lillet made a sour face.
"News seems to travel fast."
"But that's just it!" the man exclaimed. He sucked in a couple of deep breaths, then straightened up, recovering himself. "I have information!"
"Information?"
Perhaps feeling that he hadn't made the best impression, the man attempted to provide a bit of background.
"My name is Gaylord Calvert," he said, fishing a card out of his pocket. "I'm an artist by trade."
"Calvert..." Lillet mused. "Any relation to Baron Calvert?"
The artist made a little face.
"A cousin only. Second cousin, once removed, to be exact, and from a quite junior branch of the family--but all to the better, for it is hard to listen to the call of Art from the chambers of a manor house. But that is strictly by way of introduction and has no bearing on my purpose."
Lillet nodded.
"So what is your purpose? What's this information?"
"I will explain. As an artist, I have to keep a roof over my head and bread on the table, so I do commercial work as well as my own chosen pieces. Specifically, I design posters and advertisements for the City Theater, which also brings me a certain amount of portrait work from the singers and other notables. I haven't had an opportunity to sketch or paint Miss Virgine yet, though I hope to; she'd make a wonderful subject with her ethereal beauty--" He stopped, flinging up one of his hands before Lillet could do so. "I know! I'm rambling; I'm afraid I'm prone to it when excited." He plunged a hand into a pocket and took out a silver flask, popped its top off with a movement of his thumb, and took a swift draft. Calvert replaced the cap, but before he did Lillet caught a hint of a sharper, more acrid scent than whiskey or brandy.
"Anyway, I mention this all because it explains how I was in a position to know of the Watch's investigation, of the questions they were asking even yesterday. You see, we are artists, and the 'artistic temperament' as people call it often leads us to new sensations and experiences which we can then express in our art. When I heard rumors of what kind of questions were being asked I thought at once of something from six months ago."
"Six months?" It was the first piece of solid information that Calvert had given and yet it fit precisely with the time frame that they'd established for the series of murders.
Calvert's hand bobbed up and down.
"Yes, exactly. I didn't think anything of it; though it disturbed me at the time I set it aside in my mind...but now..."
"What is it, Mr. Calvert?" Lillet urged. She wasn't usually an impatient person, but the threat to Amoretta wore at her, to say nothing of the rain.
"A musician friend of mind, one of the players in the opera's orchestra. He was seeking, he said, new inspiration for his music and he'd found it in rituals he'd learned from a manuscript." Calvert shuddered theatrically. "He wanted me to join him in one of the rituals, but the things he described sickened me."
Lillet made an immediate decision.
"Take us to him, now." She gestured at her carriage. "You can tell us the rest on the way."
Calvert nodded.
"At once, Mage Consul."
She turned to the carriage and stepped quickly towards it, the men falling in behind her. Suddenly, Bartlett yelped a warning, and Lillet turned to see the knob of Calvert's walking stick swinging down at her.
The blow never fell. Blue lightning exploded from Lillet's body, halting the weapon an inch from her skin and shattering it, chunks of wood flying in several directions. Calvert cried out in pain as the power of the ward surged into him along his arm. Lillet's protection against personal attack should have incapacitated him, more than likely knocked him unconscious.
Only it didn't.
Calvert convulsed, his flesh seeming to twist and writhe. The skin of the hand that had held the cane seemed to turn scaly and ribbed in a sickly yellow not unlike a bird's talon. As Lillet tried to react, reaching to summon a bound familiar, the unnatural hand shot out as if dragging Calvert's body behind it to seize her throat. The artist howled in pain as fire lashed him again, but he silenced it by slamming Lillet's head up against the side of the carriage. Her eyes rolled up in her skull and everything went dark.
Calvert grunted as Bartlett's truncheon fell heavily on his shoulder in a savage blow, but he spun and ripped the watchman open with the suddenly talon-like nails of his free hand. Lillet's coachman lashed at the artist with his long whip, but Calvert seized the leather thong and pulled the man down from his seat to land hard on the cobbles. Sparing neither downed man another second, he flung the unconscious magician into the carriage and slammed the door shut, then leapt up onto the box, seized up the reins, and sprung the horses. Wildly, the carriage plunged through the rain like a maddened beast, the blazing eyes of its driver casting his twisted face in unholy light.
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NOTE: The Merlot brothers take their name from the variety of wine. Jaymes Bartlett's name comes from Bartles & Jaymes, makers of wine coolers. And Gaylord Calvert's name comes from Lord Calvert's whiskey, which I forgot to mention when he first appeared.
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