In the Shadow of Lightning

58

The Zorlian Mansion was one of the most famous buildings in Ossa. It was once the seat of the Zorlian guild-family, a powerful and respected group that at their height owned almost a quarter of the city. For generations, every new Zorlian matriarch or patriarch had added a new wing to the mansion, building it out across their country estate in an attempt to leave their own mark on a rich, bloated guild-family.

At some point – the history was foggy to Kizzie – the Zorlian splintered and collapsed. Dozens of family members committed suicide, while the rest changed their names or left the country. In less than a generation the guild-family was no more, leaving behind dozens of bankrupt businesses, thousands of acres of empty land, and the mansion itself – a mighty testament to greed and overreach. No one wanted it. No one even cared for the barren hunting grounds upon which it sat.

Kizzie and Montego arrived in the late morning, taking their carriage up the long gravel drive several miles west of the city borders. It was an overcast day, the erratic breeze cold and humid, as if a storm was sweeping in from the north. Montego drove, while Kizzie sat in the carriage, hugging herself against the weather, staring out into the overgrown, tangled forest that surrounded the mansion. She remembered coming here once as a kid, though she couldn’t remember with whom – her half sisters, perhaps – and the small group hadn’t gotten more than halfway up the drive before getting too spooked and turning back.

Montego did not turn back, and Kizzie watched carefully as they rolled over a hill, down through a gully, and around a massive embankment. The gravel hadn’t been replaced in decades and was mostly overgrown with grass, but it was obvious the drive was in use. Wheel ruts were well-worn through the grass, fallen branches were cleared away, and the bridge at the bottom of the gully had been recently repaired.

Someone was using the mansion.

They came around the embankment and Kizzie got her first good look at the mansion: a glimpse across a massive, overgrown field. Someone had once described it to her as so big that its footprint was measured in acres rather than square feet. “Sprawling” was the only word she could use to describe it, and even that seemed inadequate. The crumbling facade, three stories high, stretched so far in either direction that it disappeared into the forest. It was patchwork and ugly, the extensions done in clashing styles that made her eyes hurt, and she’d never had the slightest eye for architecture. The windows, most of them broken, had heavy bars on them.

Her attention was drawn away from the house itself and to the terminus of the drive. A dozen carriages were parked outside the front door. Some of them even had horses already waiting, as if departure was imminent, and a half dozen workers in dirty tunics were attending to them. They all seemed to stop what they were doing and stare toward Kizzie’s approaching carriage, and the feeling of disquiet in her belly grew stronger.

They should have come with an army – fifty Vorcien and Grappo enforcers at their backs – but Montego insisted on immediate action so they didn’t give Aristanes the chance to flee. Montego’s presence did give Kizzie a sense of invincibility, but even so she checked both her stilettos and the sword at her belt, then made certain the pistol she carried was still loaded. They came to a stop and the carriage rocked as Montego leapt down, opening the door with his back to the workers.

She studied them over his shoulder. Four men. Two women. They looked much like the caretakers of any great estate, but it was their unblinking stare that unsettled her. None of them were openly armed, but one of them slowly reached for a cudgel sitting next to a carriage.

With his back still to them, Montego reached into his pocket and produced a piece of forgeglass. “Take this,” he said, “and use it in an emergency.”

Simply touching it caused Kizzie’s heart to skip from the powerful sorcery that emanated from it. It was hot, the sorcery seeming to sizzle if she listened carefully. “That’s high-resonance,” she said, keeping it out of sight of the workers. “That’s worth twice my yearly salary.”

“It’ll also give you glassrot in roughly fourteen minutes,” Montego said.

“Shouldn’t you have it?”

“It would only slow me down. It triggers my allergy too quickly.” Montego nodded for her to put it away. She did, and let her eyes travel over the workers once more. Her gaze settled on the right hand of one of the men. She expected a silic sigil of some kind, or perhaps some client paint on his little finger. Instead, there was just one tiny tattoo: a knife with a pink razorglass blade.

“Did you see the tattoos they have on their hands?” she asked.

Montego nodded. “The Glass Knife. Seems we came to the right place.”

“Oi!” It was the man who’d reached for his cudgel. He smacked it against his palm and then pointed it toward them. “This is private property.”

“No sign of soldiers or enforcers,” Kizzie whispered. “But this bastard won’t be undefended. Stay on guard.” Louder she called, “We’re here to see Aristanes!” Kizzie climbed out of the carriage to stand next to Montego. They made, she imagined, an odd pair, considering the difference in size and dress. Montego fixed the same pleasant smile onto his face that he’d worn having a drink at that pub last night, watching gawkers pass by. He held his cane in one hand but was carrying nothing else. It was all he’d need, he’d told her earlier.

The worker glanced at his comrades uncertainly. “Do you have an appointment?”

“No.”

“Then you’ll have to leave and come back when you do. The master doesn’t like unknown visitors.”

“My name,” Montego said, drawing himself up, “is Baby Montego. There, I am not unknown to you anymore. Now tell me where to find your master.” Montego began to walk toward the door. Kizzie was more than content to let him take the lead, and she fell back behind him, watching the rest of the workers carefully. They didn’t have the army she wanted, but they did have the element of surprise. It would have to be enough.

At a nod from their leader, two of them bolted. One of them ran inside, while the other followed the facade of the house, glancing over her shoulder at them occasionally as she sprinted through the overgrown flower gardens. The other four put themselves firmly in Montego’s path.

“You have to wait,” the leader said, throwing his arms wide. To his credit, he seemed to know exactly how stupid he was being. His eyes were wide, his face pale. “We’ll let the master know you’re here. Just … wait!”

Montego did not slow, and neither did Kizzie. They’d almost reached the front door when it opened and a figure appeared on the threshold. He was an older man, probably in his mid-fifties, with the olive skin of a native Ossan and short black hair. His black goatee was sharply trimmed, his eyes were piercing brown, and a small smile was on his lips. “It’s all right, Joss. I’ll take care of our guests. Come in, please.”

The workers dispersed, and Kizzie and Montego were beckoned into the foyer. It was a massive hall, bigger than any entry she’d seen in dozens of guild-family estates, with a three-story ceiling and a grand staircase that went up to the left and right. The size was all that was left of the grandeur, however. The marble floors were cracked, the banisters broken, and the once-fabulous chandelier with its gas lines and sparkling hammerglass shards looked like it might fall at any moment.

“I am Aristanes’s majordomo,” the man introduced himself. “The master does not usually receive guests without an appointment, but I imagine he will make an exception for Baby Montego and Kizzie Vorcien.”

Kizzie felt every muscle in her body tense at once. She was wearing gloves to cover her silic sigil, and her face was not well-known enough to be recognized. So much for the element of surprise. “I did not give my name.”

The majordomo smiled. “And yet you are known to us. Please, come with me.” He began to walk briskly, forcing them to follow or be left behind. Kizzie let one hand rest on the pommel of her sword, the other on her pistol, as she did.

“Us,” Montego rumbled. “You mean the Glass Knife.”

The majordomo simply replied with a polite little laugh, as if Montego had told him a distasteful joke. Kizzie didn’t know how to read that. She said, “Then you know why we are here?”

“I imagine I do.”

Kizzie shared a glance with Montego, not bothering to hide her growing alarm. Who were these people? If they knew who Montego was, and why they were here, then why was this majordomo leading them to his master? Was she wrong? Was this a trap? Or perhaps the majordomo was leading them away while the master escaped? Either way, there was going to be blood at the end of this walk and she didn’t want it to be hers. She should have insisted on that army.

Montego gave her a reassuring nod, gripping his cane in one hand and holding his other off to one side, as if ready to grapple with anyone who might assault them.

The majordomo continued to smile as he led them farther into the mansion. Kizzie was, despite paying rather close attention, immediately lost. Within a hundred paces they’d taken six turns and emerged into one long, massive hallway that they followed for another hundred paces. The place was a damned maze, with bridges that passed overhead without connecting the floors, staircases that seemed to lead nowhere. They passed by a glass room with a gymnasium, lit by massive skylights.

Despite there being very little debris – the floors appeared to be swept regularly – everywhere Kizzie looked was touched with decay. Brick crumbled, marble was cracked, plaster had long since yellowed and leaked. Murals on the walls were faded with age, and the few remaining rugs were threadbare.

“I was told Aristanes was a foreign priest,” Kizzie said.

“He is a priest of Horuthe,” the majordomo said, “a prominent Purnian death god. Do you know of him?”

The name touched a memory, as if Kizzie might have seen it in a shrine in an omnichapel long ago. “I don’t.”

“Horuthe is a good god,” the majordomo said. “A generous god. I suggest you light a candle to him the next time you pray.”

“If we do not find Aristanes in the next few minutes,” Montego said pleasantly, “you will find out whether your god is generous or not.”

“Oh, Master Montego,” the majordomo replied, his tone still light and friendly, “it won’t be so long. Please be patient.”

Kizzie slowly grew aware that they weren’t alone. They were being followed, and watched. Faces peeked out from cracked doors, and occasionally the patter of footsteps came to her from the ends of long corridors. Somewhere in the distance, she heard a door slam. Her mouth grew dry, and that feeling that they were being distracted only deepened.

Finally, Kizzie stopped in the middle of a hallway, reaching out to touch Montego’s sleeve as she did. He paused with her, glancing between her and the majordomo. It took their guide several steps before he seemed to realize that they were no longer following.

“You’re Aristanes,” Kizzie accused.

The man grinned at her and opened a door. “Please, step into my office. I imagine you have a lot of questions.” He went inside without answering her. Kizzie held out a hand to keep Montego where he was and proceeded forward to the door, where she glanced inside. It was, much to her surprise, a standard guild-family office. It had a vaulted ceiling, expansive bookshelves, a massive oak desk, and behind the desk one of those big fireplaces that you could walk inside without ducking. There was no fire going but the office was definitely in use and had been, it seemed, repaired while the rest of the house remained a ruin.

There was no one waiting to ambush them. She nodded to Montego, and the two entered, leaving the door open behind them. “So you are Aristanes.”

“I am.”

“You don’t seem scared for your life.”

Aristanes gave them a patronizing smile and went to stand behind the desk. “Refreshment?” he asked.

Kizzie examined the room more closely, looking for the sorts of traps one might find in a penny novel – poison darts, trapdoors with spikes at the bottom, suspicious candlesticks. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Montego stood in the center of the room, gripping his cane in both hands, staring at Aristanes with those beady, violent eyes. Kizzie wondered idly if this clever old priest knew just how close to violence Montego was.

Kizzie gave up her search and went to stand beside Montego. If this bastard thought he was so clever, so be it. It was time for trial, and all parts would be carried out by her and Montego. She reached into her pocket, ready to produce Demir’s shackleglass if necessary. “Did you arrange the murder of Adriana Grappo?” she asked.

“I did.” The answer was without hesitation or malice.

Kizzie inhaled sharply. “Why?” Beside her, Montego’s knuckles grew white on his cane.

“Adriana and I had a deal,” Aristanes said, spreading his arms. “She broke that deal, and so she had to be punished. It was nothing personal, I hope you realize.”

“What happens next will be personal,” Montego rumbled, taking a step forward.

Aristanes held up one hand. “Come now. You came all this way for answers and you won’t wait for any?”

It did not take a genius to realize that Aristanes was stalling. But what for? Even if he had hundreds of acolytes in this mansion – which he might – they wouldn’t save him from Montego’s wrath. Kizzie let her curiosity get the better of her. “You said the two of you had a deal?”

“Indeed we did. Our deal was simple: she would not interfere with the Glass Knife, and the Glass Knife would not interfere with the Grappo. It was a good deal, considering how large and powerful the Glass Knife is. Similar to the deal my servant offered you at the watchhouse earlier this week.”

The memory of Gorian’s dead body surrounded by dead National Guardsmen caused Kizzie’s anger to flare. “The Glass Knife,” she spat. “A criminal organization masquerading as a Fulgurist Society.”

“Calling us a criminal organization is a little demeaning,” Aristanes replied, looking truly hurt. “The Glass Knife is a social club, just like any other. We just have bigger dreams.”

“Oh yeah?” Kizzie asked. “What kind of dreams?”

“Fomenting wars. Speeding economic collapse. Bringing down empires.” Aristanes gave her what might have seemed a cheeky smile in other circumstances. In the moment, it was supremely sinister.

“You killed Adriana to start the war with Grent?” Kizzie found breathing difficult, her chest tight.

“Oh, we would have started the war anyway. It’s the best way to destabilize a region, after all. Adriana died because she broke our deal, like I said. I just used her death to further my goals.”

“How,” Montego rumbled angrily, “did she break your deal?”

Aristanes considered the question for several moments. He still wore that cheeky smile, as if his death wasn’t imminent. “She promised not to interfere, and then she went looking for monsters.”

“What monsters?” Kizzie demanded.

“Monsters like me” – Aristanes grinned – “and monsters like him.” He pointed.

Kizzie whirled, and in the doorway behind them stood the Tall Man. He looked much the same as he had days ago in the watchhouse, wearing what might have been the same clothes, and when he stepped into the room he had to duck. Kizzie did not wait for him to take a second step. She drew her pistol and shot him in the face.

Several things happened at once. The blast of the pistol was deafening, immediately filling the room with black smoke. The Tall Man’s head jerked back, and in the time it took for Kizzie to turn back to Aristanes, the priest slammed his fist down on his desk and then … vanished.

“He dropped through a trapdoor!” Kizzie swore, leaping over his desk just in time to see a hinged piece of marble spring back into place, closing just beneath where Aristanes had been standing. Even having gotten a glimpse of it, she could barely see the outline of the trapdoor. She slammed her fist onto the desk, trying to replicate whatever mechanism had allowed him to escape. Nothing happened.

Montego came around and threw himself to his knees, prying around the edges with his fingernails, then slamming his cane against the marble flooring. “Glassdamnit,” he swore loudly, “come, he’ll be somewhere on the grounds still! We can…”

Both of them saw it at the same time. The Tall Man, whom Kizzie had definitely just shot in the face, had not fallen. Instead he stood with his hands braced on the doorframe, his head tilted backward. Slowly, his head came forward, to reveal the bullet embedded in his cheek. It had torn away a massive piece of skin, but his blood was black as tar, tinged with yellow bile, oozing from gray flesh.

“We tried to be reasonable,” the Tall Man said. With that, he gripped a flap of torn skin and pulled. It came away like sunburnt skin, stretching and translucent, gray flesh popping out behind it like a fat man undoing his corset. A tentacle, ribbed and wiggling, flopped out, then another, until half his face had been peeled away to reveal a dozen of the thrashing appendages framed around a gray, beast-like chin like some sort of beard.

Kizzie didn’t have the wherewithal to consider the horror of it. She backed into a corner, trying to reload her pistol with trembling fingers. Montego gave a bellow and hurled himself across the desk, swinging his cane with blinding speed.

The Tall Man caught it.

Montego’s left fist connected with the Tall Man’s stomach. The Tall Man gave a grunt, staggered back, and managed to catch Montego’s second blow. Arms locked in a contest of impossible strength, Montego pushed him out of the doorway. Kizzie took the opportunity to flee, getting out of the now-claustrophobic office and into the hallway, where she might maneuver. Giving up on reloading her pistol, she drew her sword.

Montego smashed his forehead against the Tall Man’s now-tentacled face once, twice, then a third time before the latter finally jerked backward and retreated several feet. He spat and swore, the intent of the words clear despite coming out in some garbled language that Kizzie did not know. The Tall Man looked like a cadaver now, his head oversized and bloated, flaps of skin hanging off. Giving a bestial bellow, he grabbed a flap of skin in each hand and pulled. More gray flesh spilled out, then two more arms, stretching and flailing like they’d been trapped inside their human vessel for too long. Kizzie suppressed the urge to vomit.

Montego backed away from him, holding his cane up like a holy symbol. Kizzie caught his eye.

“Run,” she said.