“He called himself Thornscar.”
“And how did you find him?”
“He found me. He came into the Cog and Crank, dressed rich and hooded like a monk. Said he’d heard of me, had a job for me.”
“And how did you see his scar if he wore a cowl?”
“I could see his chin and his cheek. It was a really big scar. The rest was in shadow.”
“Who told him about you?” That would be the next step in Jean-Claude’s chain of pursuit.
The swordsman shook his head. “I don’t know. Could’ve been anybody. I have a reputation.”
And you’re not a big thinker, so you didn’t bother to ask. “And how much did he offer you?” Jean-Claude asked, teasing the man’s money pouch from his belt. The swordsman shot Jean-Claude a look of fury but was wise enough to refrain from arguing the point of theft.
Jean-Claude opened the purse and found a tidy sum in silver coins, enough to set a wise man up for a year, or a fool for a week. “Impressive. And with such an amount being offered, it did not occur to you that I might be dangerous?”
“He said you were wounded, crippled.”
Which he could have learned from anyone who saw the blast. “Was he carrying a weapon?”
“He had a sword—didn’t look comfortable with it, though, but his bodyguards did.”
“Bodyguards?” The picture forming in Jean-Claude’s head kept drifting farther and farther from the Thornscar he’d encountered in the ship’s hold. As Isabelle had informed him, the man who’d attacked them en route didn’t even have a knife, much less a sword. This latest incarnation of Thornscar hired others to do his work for him. That spoke of money. And wouldn’t bodyguards be inconvenient for someone who wanted to remain hidden?
“Two of them. Professional soldiers by their look.”
“Was Thornscar injured in his left arm?” Where Jean-Claude had thrust his main gauche.
“Huh? No. He had a bit of a limp, though.”
Jean-Claude shook his head. Unfortunately, he had no idea if damage done to a reflection would be mirrored on the body, or if it would show up as some sort of phantom pain, or not at all, and he could have acquired a limp anywhere, as Jean-Claude could attest.
“How were you supposed to pick up the second half of your payment?” Jean-Claude asked. “And don’t try denying it. These arrangements are always half on proof of kill.”
“He said nail your hat to the Temple door, and he’d find me.”
“Well then,” Jean-Claude said merrily. “Let’s try it and see what happens.”
CHAPTER
Twelve
Isabelle clung to Marie’s cool, dry, translucent hand like a sailor clinging to a line in a gale. In truth, she did not need to hold her friend at all to get her to follow along, but the mad hope that their mutual torment might soon come to an end was a wind in her face. She had suppressed that hope ever since Kantelvar had presented it. It couldn’t happen. It wouldn’t. She was a fool to let herself be drawn in, her long-dead dream rekindled. Yet now that the moment was upon her, the pressure seemed ready to erupt into something physical that would fling Marie away from her.
“Where are we?” Isabelle asked as Kantelvar led them down a long, dusty, deserted corridor somewhere in the bowels of the citadel. “You said we were going to the Temple.” A public place. Instead she’d been guided down what she thought was a shortcut into what turned out to be a warren of abandoned corridors. If she’d known they were going this far out of the way she would have insisted on a bodyguard.
“We are,” Kantelvar said. “When the citadel was built, it swallowed up much of the old city, including a Temple that had stood here since the days of Rüul. Carlemmo’s father knocked the upper levels flat and built that stupefying edifice in the square to replace it.” He snorted contempt for the gleaming complex that stood across from Isabelle’s guest residence. “But the Temple’s vault remains, and I make use of it from time to time. It will serve our purposes well today.”
Isabelle stopped and the pall of dust she’d been trailing wafted by her. “There is no reason to do this in such a hidden place.”
Kantelvar clanked two more steps before stopping and turning. “This is where my equipment is. If you wish, I can have my equipment removed to your quarters, thought that will take time, and it may be difficult to re-create the precise conditions required for the treatment.”
“What conditions would those be?” Isabelle asked.
“Silence, stillness, and complete, uninterrupted darkness. We must separate the subject from her shadow. When a Sanguinaire creates a bloodhollow, he leaves a piece of his bloodshadow diffused through the victim’s shadow, like a single drop of ink diluted in a bucket of water. The resident bloodshadow then feeds on the victim’s soul, like a parasite, just enough to keep it alive without destroying the host. Most of the time, the host’s spirit weakens and is ultimately devoured. That is why it is so remarkable that yours has lasted so long and has even thrived. You must have put in an extraordinary amount of work.”
Isabelle’s chest swelled a little at this praise, but she squeezed it down. Marie wasn’t cured yet. “But Marie has been in the dark before.” Shutting her in the dark was the one sure way to make sure her father was not using her as a spy.
“For how long? An hour? A night? The bloodshadow can survive that. Indeed, a lifetime of darkness would not be enough to dislodge the barb; darkness only weakens it and leaves it vulnerable to shriving, which is done with a solution of soul ash, moon resin, the pollen of several rare orchids, and the spores of a gloom fungus in a medium of alkahest.”
“How did you find this cure?” Such a complex potion could not have been hit upon by accident.
As he so frequently did, Kantelvar took his time answering. “The Risen Saints and the Firstborn Kings had powers that modern sorcerers could only pine for. The saints who possessed what we now call Sanguinaire sorcery could make what they called Satrapae Umbra, Shadow Lords, like bloodhollows except that they retained their own free will when not being directly possessed. It was counted a high honor for a clayborn to be chosen for this role. They served as ambassadors, scouts, and champions for their masters. They could even borrow a portion of their master’s power. And when their term of service was done, or when they became too old, crippled, or weak, it was customary to shrive them of the barb and its burden. The recipe for the shriving agent was never precisely written down, but the gathering of the ingredients was mentioned in some of the Remnants and Ghost Tales.”
Isabelle frowned. “I’ve never heard of any of that.” How many times had he answered one of her questions with a reference to some ancient work or hidden knowledge she had no way to verify?