‘Of course not, sir,’ Rashodd replied. ‘You came seeking purple-skinned longfaces, foes inveterate of demons theoretical. The former pursues the latter for reasons unknown whilst, for reasons incomprehensible, the demons evade them. You hope to find the former by locating the latter. To find the latter, you seek a seeker.
‘And to have come this far, being a man of decencies and honorifics as befits his education, you undoubtedly know who you seek. Six members, of a band most foul, which I would conclude to be the second object of your search, would fulfil such a purpose. And, most importantly, the location of their precious cargo would put you in a fine position to locate all parties desirable, regardless of skin colour.’
Rashodd’s smile was filled with piercing congeniality.
‘But of course, you already knew that.’
Bralston took a deep breath, the first phase of a common meditative technique, taught to apprentices and used by Librarians. He raised a hand, the second phase, to hone the flow of Venarie and tune the senses.
The spark of crimson, the arcane word, the sound of a heavy body crunching against the wall that followed were part of no meditation. Yet, Bralston couldn’t deny that the sight of the man crushed between the force and stone was decidedly therapeutic.
‘Where the Venarium is concerned,’ he said, ‘there is no definition of the word “request”. You are not free to refuse what we require. You are not free to wallow in the safety of a cell when you possess what we require.’ His fingers twitched; he could feel a fleshy throat across the room tighten in his hand. ‘Not with bothlungs, anyway. Gurgle if you will comply.’
The sound that boiled out of the man’s lips was particularly thick and moist.
‘Good enough,’ the Librarian said, relaxing his magical grip only slightly. ‘Speak quickly and curtly. What cargo do the adventurers carry?’
‘A tome,’ Rashodd gasped. ‘ Thetome. I overheard on the Riptide. A book to establish contact between earth and heaven … or hell. The demons want it for the latter … I assume.’
‘Pointless. Neither place exists.’
‘I saw the beast. I’ve seen the demon. It could come from no other place.’
‘The priest mentioned no tome.’
‘Sent the adventurers after it. Needs it back.’
‘And these … demons pursue it?’
‘Also need it. It’s the key.’
‘To the door to take them back to hell?’
‘No, sir,’ Rashodd gasped. ‘To let their brethren in.’
Bralston narrowed his eyes. ‘And the longfaces chase the demons …’
‘Demons chase the tome. Adventurers seek the tome. If they found it, you’ll find the longfaces and demons with them.’
‘How long ago did they set out?’
‘Two weeks, roughly. Not much supplies for the Reaching Isles. Probably dead now, or mostly.’ Rashodd found the strength to sneer through the strangulation. ‘Chase their trail to Ktamgi, north. Find whatever hell you deserve.’
Bralston pursed his lips, eased his fingers. The air ceased to ripple. The Cragsman collapsed to the floor, expelling great hacking coughs.
Bralston offered no particular apology for the treatment; the only error he had committed was, perhaps, a small expenditure of power wasted where a little patience would have been prudent. No reason for guilt, though. His course was clear.
The Reaching Isles at the edge of Toha’s empire were, as far as the atlases and charts suggested, uninhabited, the Tohana Navy outposts having long since been rendered economically unviable. Locating a rabble of desperate, half-dead vagrants should prove no great challenge; if they were completelydead, the task would be only slightly more difficult.
‘Describe the adventurers,’ he said, replacing his hat.
‘Six,’ Rashodd replied. ‘Three men, one woman, two … things. One, a shict. The other …’ He grimaced. ‘But they aren’t important. It’s the men, one in particular. There are two runty little things, but the other, a tall and evil-’
‘The woman.’
‘What?’ Rashodd shook his head. ‘No, it’s the tall man, the Sainite you’re interested in, he-’
‘ What of the woman?’ Bralston pressed. ‘Was she in good health? Did you harm her?’
‘Ah, that’s it, is it? I am certain it is no uncertain blasphemy that you should lust after a woman of the Healer, sir, but I must wonder whose faith, or lack thereof, it offends more.’ At the Librarian’s scowl, he chuckled. ‘Rest assured, she was well, no matter what happened.’
Bralston kept the man’s single-eyed stare for a moment. A moment was all it took for him to breathe in, raise a hand, mutter an incomprehensible word, and swiftly lower his hand.
Rashodd’s face followed its arc, an invisible force sending him to kiss the stone floor with a resounding crack. He lay there, unmoving but for the faint breath that sent his body, broad and unwashed, shivering.
Not dead, then, Bralston thought. Pity.
But it was no longer his concern. Restraint, wisdom, prudence were the watchwords of the Venarium; bravado, haste, fury, its anathema. He had spent enough energy on the Cragsman, wasted enough words. He sneered at Rashodd; there wasn’t even a splatter of blood to suggest his nose was broken. He would live until he was delivered to whomever would lower the axe on his head. That pleasure was not to be his.
Lesser men had pleasures. Librarians had duties.
He had just turned away from the Cragsman when he heard the chuckle. He turned, hardly astonished to see the man rising. Bralston was prepared for that, prepared to put him back down if need be, and more likely prepared to let him retreat and subsequently rot in the shadows.
Bralston, however, was not prepared for the sight of him in the yellow, pitiless light.
‘Is your aim to inflict suffering, sir?’ A pair of hands, three fingers between them, splayed their fleshy stumps, hoisting up a great, tattooed bulk. ‘I lament your lateness, my friend. Lamentit.’ He levelled a single eye at Bralston as the other one, a colourless mass surrounded by tiny lines of scar tissue, stared off into nothingness. ‘You see, kind sir …’
His smile was all the broader for the flesh that had been neatly sliced from the left side of his lip, baring dry, grey gum beneath a mass of scab. His grey hair was matted all the more from the dried crimson where his left ear had once been. His face all the more akin to a slab of flesh and sinew for the two gaping punctures where he had once bore a nose.
‘I’ve nothing left to feel it with.’
Bralston’s veneer of indifference cracked; he did not notice, did not care that the shock was plain on his face, the horror clear in his eyes. Rashodd’s black humour dropped, as though he were suddenly aware of the great joke and no longer found it funny. He shuffled backwards, back into the gloom, but Bralston’s mouth remained agape, his voice remained a whisper.
‘You …’ he said softly. ‘Someone … spitedyou?’
‘You’ve seen this before,’ Rashodd replied, gesturing to his face. ‘I somehow thought you might. You are … a Djaalman, yes?’
‘That’s … yes …’ Bralston said, struggling in vain to find his composure again. ‘During the riots, the Jackals … they spited people, spited everyone they could. There were …’ His eyes widened. ‘When did you meet a Jackal? Are they active outside of Cier’Djaal?’
‘Enough questions from your end, sir,’ Rashodd said, and Bralston did not challenge him. ‘You are an observant Djaalman, yes? Touched your eye in reverence for the Houndmistress. Lady most admirable, she was … culled the Jackals, restored the common man’s faith in the city.’
‘Until she was murdered,’ Bralston said. ‘Her husband and child likely dead, too.’
‘Likely?’
‘They disappeared.’
‘Disappeared, sir? Or fled?’
‘What do you mean?’ Bralston’s eyes flared to crimson light. ‘What do you know?’ He stepped forward brashly at Rashodd’s silence, scowl burning without care. ‘Her murder started the riots, killed over a thousandpeople. What do you know?’