Burn Me Deadly

TWELVE

I read once that if you wait long enough, everything eventually comes to you. I’m not sure I believe it as a universal maxim, but it definitely applied on that day. At mid-afternoon, on my way to Walpaca to find him, I ran smack into Gordon Marantz on his way to Neceda.

I was glad it hadn’t happened earlier, because after leaving the hospital I was so furious I might have picked a fight I couldn’t possibly win. Counting Laura Lesperitt, Mother Bennings was the third person killed since I’d been ambushed, and although I had no hard evidence the deaths were related, I knew they were. Bennings told Hank that she wanted to see me, and now both of them were dead. What had she wanted to tell me that could’ve been so important that it was worth two lives? Why not just kill me instead? On top of that was the agonizing knowledge that, for whatever reason, Liz had lied to me. Was I so blinded by love and lust that I just never noticed she had a treacherous, nefarious side?

And why had shack-trash dragon worshippers moved into an old whorehouse?

And who the hell was “Lumina”?

Pondering these questions helped calm me down and get focused back on the job. Which was good, considering how quickly I found what I sought. I barely had time to get off the road and out of sight.

Marantz wasn’t alone; guys like him never are. Half a dozen tough-looking men rode around him as bodyguards and lookouts. Behind them walked another batch of the red-scarved folk, although these were far more cosmopolitan than the ones back in town. They seemed to come from all over, lacking the hill people’s disconcerting physical similarity.

In the midst of them rode an old man, the only red-scarf not on foot. He was clean shaven, with a leathery complexion set in a permanent scowl of disapproval. His scarf was longer, trailing past his skeletal shoulders almost to his waist. Whoever he was, he looked both important and unpleasant.

Behind this bunch came a wagon packed with what looked like women, all covered from head to ankle with red hooded robes. Only their bare, dirty feet showed. I looked for signs of shackles or manacles, but saw none. Two more of Marantz’s thugs brought up the rear.

The caravan passed without seeing me, or at least without caring that I saw them. They moved at the pace set by those on foot, and at least one of the hired swords wasn’t happy about it.

“Boss, I know he’s your friend, but he’s getting on everyone’s nerves with that ‘flame’ crap,” a thug with short black hair said as he rode past.

“He’s not talking to you; he’s talking to them,” Marantz said, nodding back at the red-scarf brigade. “Just ignore him.”

“I’m trying, but he gives me the creeps.”

“Me, too,” another man added,

“You big fucking babies,” Marantz said with a disparaging grin. “One old man’s got you pissing your pants. Maybe I should hire grown men next time.”

They passed out of earshot before I could catch any reply, but by then the old man’s voice drowned them out anyway. He spoke without looking at anyone, a monologue that could’ve been a prayer, part of a story or just senility. I sensed he’d been going on like this for most of the trip and would not stop anytime soon.

“… the flames will consume the unbelievers, turning them to ashes and scattering their souls to wander in the winds. No one but the Lightkeepers will be safe, praise the flame. And then the world will belong to us, to be tended and guarded by the great Lumina and her consort, Solarian…”

Well, hell. Even I recognized that as a clue. So Gramps knew about Lumina. I needed to talk to this guy.

His followers dutifully echoed, “Praise the flame.” They were all young, with the pale look of wealth and privilege about them. They were also exclusively male. Each looked exhausted, and I wondered how long they’d been walking. Certainly none seemed suited to real physical exertion.

I could see nothing of the women as the wagon rattled by. It wouldn’t be unusual for Marantz to be trafficking in girls brought from outside Muscodia, but normally they’d be on display for all to see, the better to drum up word of mouth. The hooded robes seemed to correspond to the red scarves as some sort of religious clothing. None of those I’d seen in Neceda were women, either; perhaps they were kept separate from the men. I listened for talking, whispers, even singing, but there was nothing. The women rode in silence.

So. Marantz was taking a bunch of citified dragon worshippers to Neceda to join their backwoods brethren in an old whorehouse. That made no sense at all.

I needed to find out what the hell they were doing, why they were involved with Marantz and who or what “Lumina” might be. I couldn’t just ask to join their caravan, and if I showed myself Marantz’s thugs were as likely to gut me as to chase me off.

I had only one real chance: get to Neceda before they did, disguise myself as a dragon worshipper with that red scarf I’d taken from Frankie and hope both groups would assume I belonged to the other. That’s all. Simple. Except that they were on the only road between here and town, and in front of me at that. I’d have to go around them through the woods and cut back to the road ahead of them.

Once they were out of earshot and crossbow range, I turned Pansy toward the woods. “Don’t mess with me,” I said to her; I always suspected that horses understood everything we said, no matter what other people thought. “This is important, and I need you to go fast. Understand?” I patted her neck, then nudged her firmly with my heels.

She didn’t go fast. She was as annoying and balky as she’d been in the Black River Hills, but at least luck was with me. Marantz’s convoy traveled so slowly we still got ahead of them, worked our way back to the road and reached Neceda first. It was nearly nightfall, so it was unlikely I’d be recognized as long as I avoided my usual haunts.

My luck continued. Strangers from a recently docked passenger riverboat filled the streets, and with that many new faces in town, I’d blend right in. Unless, I thought wryly, I ran into Gary, Argoset, Marion, Sharky, Angelina or Liz. Maybe I had too many friends here.

I tied my horse to a hitching post outside Long Billy’s, the tavern that was Angelina’s main competition on the opposite side of town, and headed for Ditch Street. The embers of the stable were still glowing, and a small crowd gathered around them, swapping gossip and innuendo. Some were tourists from the riverboat, getting the lowdown from the local wags. I gave them a wide berth in case someone recognized me, but stopped when I heard a voice ask, “So what can you tell me about the fire and how it started?”

I stood at the back of the crowd, head down, well aware that every moment I spent here was one less moment to prepare for Marantz’s arrival. The voice made the hairs on my neck stand up, though, and I wanted to know why. Experience had taught me that I ignored such cosmic hints at my own peril.

The man asking the questions was about my age, dark skinned and with the curly black hair of men from the tropics. He carried the distinctive gear of the Society of Scribes, those independent chroniclers of anything and everything. They served no king or queen, and their accounts of the world’s history were the only ones that preserved things like the long-ago massacre of Fechinians in Arentia or the poisoning of Lord Frank Fisher in Ulkper, which led to the Dandelion Skirmishes.

They also didn’t waste time with trivial events. Why would one care that Hank’s stable burned down?

He listened as a young woman described the previous night’s events. She got most of it right, although she included the common belief that Hank torched the place himself. When she finished he smiled paternally and said, “Thank you, young lady. Tell me, did you see anything unusual before the fire started?”

“Unusual how?”

The scribe pretended to think. “Oh, I dunno… maybe something flying overhead?”

“Like a bird or something?”

“Like a bird, yeah.”

She shook her head. “No, it was dark, and I was…” She paused to giggle. “A little tipsy. A girl can’t be serious all the time, you know.”

He smiled, his irony entirely for himself. “I surely do. Do you think any of your friends saw anything?”

She looked back at three girls and two boys, all in the first flush of young adulthood, away from home and easy prey to the excesses available in Neceda. They laughed among themselves and one of the boys said, “Naw, we didn’t see anything. Come on, Deedee.”

“Sorry,” Deedee said as her friends pulled her away.

The scribe smiled and nodded, then furiously scribbled on a sheet of vellum attached to a large tablet worn on a shoulder strap. “Okay,” he called without looking up, “can anyone else help me out? How about you, sir?”

He stepped close to a man with long gray hair, who jumped at the sudden attention. I couldn’t hear his words, but he shook his head and waved his hands in front of his face-hands covered by heavy, mitten-like gloves.

I clenched my fists in frustration. There was the man who’d been haunting my steps since I was injured, now less than a dozen feet away. I also really wanted to know why a scribe was here asking questions. But there was no time. This was one more weird thing to comprehend, and it would have to wait its turn. I made haste to the Lizard’s Kiss.

The building was completely dark. The front porch was as empty as it had been that morning, and there was no sign of anyone. I put my ear to the door again, but heard nothing. I dropped to my knees and tried peering under it, looking for any sign of light or movement. Perhaps I’d guessed wrong, and Marantz wasn’t coming here after all.

I slipped around the side to the garden wall. There was a gate, of course, but I was stealthier than that. I heaved myself atop the seven-foot stone barrier and quickly dropped over, landing with reasonable silence in the dark behind a tall bush. I waited to see if my arrival called out the cavalry. All remained silent, so I moved along the shrubbery until I could peek through a gap.

I’d been right after all. The garden itself was empty, but two torches burned on either side of the slanted doors to the cellar, and a man with a red scarf and a serious-looking curved sword stood guard beside it. He was clearly not a pro: he yawned, bored, not expecting any trouble. He never saw me coming.

After I whacked him, I propped him against the side of the building, sword still in his hands, so he’d appear asleep. I didn’t know how long he’d be out, but he’d be found as soon as Marantz and company arrived. At least he couldn’t identify me.

I tied Frankie’s red scarf around my head in the same fashion as the guard. My clothes weren’t as rustic, so I took some mud and smeared it around the cuffs of my sleeves and the bottom of my pants. I was pretty sure I could mimic the accent with no problem. I debated abandoning my sword, but decided if the guard had one, others inside might, too. I carefully lifted the cellar door just enough to slip inside and closed it silently behind me.