Nightfire | The Whispering Wall #1 - Chapter 45: Chapter 45

"I feel sick."
Arlen grimaced at the chair behind Lord Eril's desk. It was cushioned with cloth of gold, and the frame was set with countless precious gems. This was the state room; the head of house had a less ostentatious office for very private matters down the corridor, but the kind of thing Arlen was looking for was probably here if it was anywhere. Silas, who had been picking through a cupboard like he was scared the contents would explode, whipped round with a hunted look at the sound of Arlen's voice.
"People starve every day," Arlen muttered. "And this prat is having a tea break on that monstrosity. It's not even tasteful. He might as well go round the slums and spit on people."
"Then laugh about it," Silas muttered. He moved onto another cabinet.
Arlen hadn't wanted to bring Silas, but the boy was invaluable for this particular task; as the baron Ethred's favourite acolyte, he had spent a lot of time in the house temple, and knew his way around like the back of his hand. He knew how long Eril would spend at the festival and how much he would drink, just in case they were caught short and had to hide. Inebriated people took a lot less time to fall asleep and provide an escape window. According to Silas, Eril had a habit of getting thoroughly wasted.
If all else failed, Usk was outside, armed to the teeth with firecrackers.
With another noise of disgust, Arlen dismissed the desk, making sure to arrange the papers on it the way he'd found them. He could hear noise from the festival from there, despite the thick stone walls of the temple. He wished he was out in it, wreaking havoc and stealing from the rich in the short time they weren't holed away in their heavily-secured estates. The previous year, he and Jesper had had a competition to see how many beer glasses they could steal from inns while the staff were run off their feet. Arlen had won at twenty-three tankards and two barrels of mead from one inn before someone had noticed they had any missing. They had then proceeded to get smashed on stolen alcohol in the garden of some minor lordling's townhouse, leaving all the tankards and the mess for the owners to explain.
Instead he was digging through the office of a man with more money than sense, trying to find something to kill him with.
"What about this?"
Silas backed out from one of the cupboards, which was so deep he had clambered inside to reach the back. He was clutching a large glass bottle and looked faintly repulsed.
"Oh-ho," Arlen scoffed, and couldn't keep from laughing. "The pious head of House Orthan, storing the liquor of sin within his own temple. My, my."
Demonfire was a heavily distilled spirit made from fruit that only grew in the scrub forests outside the city. It was as potent as liquor came while still being remotely drinkable, though Arlen had known a man who died trying to finish a bottle of it in one sitting.
It was only made by Nict priests, cost a small fortune, and was banned in the Reach. The Devils dealt in it, and the house kept it so secret they were never connected, which meant Eril had either been buying it from Marick or was investing in production. Both would land him in prison. If Marick hadn't been so clear that Eril was to die, Arlen might have just laid a trail to the contraband for Harkenn's soldiers to find.
It didn't mean he couldn't scare the man a little first.
"That's perfect," he said, taking the bottle. It was still almost full. "Good job finding that one."
He realised his mistake when Silas lit up like the Night Fire. He scrambled to cover it up, but the damage had been done. He could feel it.
"Let's get out of here," he said brusquely.
The temple had security measures, but they were scant. Many of the hired-hands the temple employed for nights such as these would be disgruntled about missing the festivities and would undoubtedly be drinking and gambling anyway, hidden away in the corners. They would get paid handsomely no matter what, so long as they looked like they were doing their job when the main body of the Orthanian house returned. It was a simple matter to climb out through the window of Eril's office and drop to the courtyard below unseen, blending seamlessly with the shadows. Silas jumped down with considerably less finesse, but Arlen commended him for not losing his balance and cracking his skull like an egg, like he'd almost done on the way in. A magnificent purple swelling occupied several inches of the boy's forehead from where he'd smacked it on the edge of a cupboard.
He'd been surly and uncommunicative ever since, and Arlen found they both worked better that way.
He buried the Demonfire in the satchel he'd brought with him, covering it over with random debris in case the supervising guards at the festival were conducting searches. He'd collected his debris from a waste pile behind the beer hall; no guard with any sense would want to stick his fingers in more than an inch or two.
"Where are we going now?" Silas asked, as Arlen struck off down one of the side streets.
"Missed most of the festival," he muttered. "No reason why I can't have a night off anyway."
"Won't we get caught?"
"If you're worried about that, feel free to go back. You know the way."
"You think we don't know where to go to avoid getting arrested by now, kid?" Usk's enormous frame detached itself from a shadowed doorway. Silas gasped and jumped back; despite his size, the brute was uncannily good at hiding. Usk gave a rough laugh. "We've been getting away from the law since you were just a fateful glance at your ma's backside. Nice bruise."
"Fuck off," Silas muttered. He was slowly losing some of his prudishness, which was only ever going to be an improvement, and Usk had taken great delight in teaching him Varthian curses incorrectly; Arlen hadn't had the heart to tell the boy that what he thought meant 'damn you to the Pit' was really 'I've been a dirty boy'. He hadn't been able to stop laughing long enough.
Arlen could count down on his fingers the length of time Silas would take to ask another stupid question. A minute later, it came.
"What about demons?"
Arlen sighed. "What about them?"
"Shouldn't we be more worried about getting caught by them?"
"Why would any demon want to go chasing down backstreets on an off chance when there's so much prey in the city centre?" Arlen said. "They're more likely trying to get past a couple dozen Unspoken, not wasting time all the way out here."
Silas settled into a disgruntled silence, but he didn't leave. Arlen wondered if he'd tried too hard to reassure him.
"Did you get anything, then?" Usk grunted. They all paused where they stood as something clanged in another street, followed by the scratching of claws. They didn't move until it was silent again.
Ignoring Silas's scandalised, accusing glare, Arlen replied, "Yes, we've got something we can use. Just gotta work out how to do it."
"You said there wouldn't be any demons," Silas hissed.
"If you recall my wording, kid, you'll remember I didn't actually say that," Arlen growled. "Shut up and keep moving."
It was a long walk from the Orthanian quarter to Bisa, and Silas did have a point; demons were something to worry about when they were so far away from most of the population and its attendant Unspoken. Stupid demons like Listeners and Fleshmongers would be trying to break through a solid wall of Unspoken protection, and Marrowhawks wouldn't spot them in a darkened alley, but Wights were clever. If they hadn't been travelling in a group, Arlen wouldn't have been so cautious. He closed his hand around the hilt of his hunting knife. Usk idly twirled a long match in one hand and a firecracker in the other.
Despite the distance from the epicentre of the celebrations, it wasn't long before they came across the straggling edges of the crowd. Almost everyone in the city would be out tonight, and that was a lot of people. Arlen ducked down another narrow lane to avoid the two Unspoken supervising a large game of kickball. He almost instantly regretted it; the lane turned out to be a dead end where the Unspoken had been storing marauding demons. A dead Listener lay under a large covering sheet, one rigid clawed hand showing underneath. The smell was ghastly.
Silas wretched behind him. Arlen wrinkled his nose, and then used the old crates around the carcass to give him a leg up onto the roof of the building. Usk followed, hauling Silas up after him by the neck of his shirt.
"You should apprentice the little shit," Arlen muttered in Tochk, "Since you enjoy mothering him so much." Tochk wasn't the language of Usk's former tribe, but it was the only Varthian variant they both knew enough of to communicate in. Usk's former tribe had a language that involved sounds Arlen's mouth was incapable of making. He was rusty on his Tochk, too – it had been a long time since he and Usk had had company they couldn't talk freely with – but he was increasingly finding it a necessity as Silas tried to pry into his business.
Usk grinned. "The pleasure is yours, brother."
Arlen scowled, and switched back to Common. "I don't know what you two are planning to do, but my stop is near here."
Understanding dawned on Usk's face, and Arlen hated that anyone knew him well enough to guess where he was going.
"Come on, kid," the larger man said, ushering Silas away over the roofline when he showed signs of protesting.
Arlen waited until he could no longer see them before he moved again. It was an effort to wrangle his emotions into some semblance of control; he couldn't help it. Silas infuriated him.
He dropped down to the other side of the buildings he stood on and landed in a narrow street lined with houses. They were small box houses, workers' cottages with two rooms each, property owned by the vast candle-making business which had a warehouse on the edge of the merchants' quarter. Arlen drew up his hood, as the street was so narrow the occupants could stare into the homes opposite. His passing silhouette would draw attention, and he didn't want anyone recognising him.
He stopped at a door near the end of the street and took a breath before knocking. He hoped the occupant wasn't still at the festival, if they had gone at all. He doubted it, but he was always fearful that they wouldn't be in when he arrived.
The door opened. The figure silhouetted there peered at him for a minute, before glancing each way down the street and ushering him inside. Arlen stepped into a tiny room, muggy with heat from a roaring fire and a large tin bath that was gently steaming.
"I was about to wash," said a sullen voice behind him, after the door clicked shut. "She finally went to sleep."
Arlen glanced at the closed door on the far wall. "Is she doing badly?"
"No worse," the voice replied, and someone shuffled past him. "No better, either."
The man was younger than Arlen by a few years. He was wearing a drying rag around his waist, which he dropped to the floor and clambered into the tub. He sank into the water with a sigh, then caught Arlen's look. "What? I've been waiting for this bath all day. You're not that special."
Arlen lowered his hood and put his satchel down on the small metal table by the door. The bottle of demonfire clanked. Darin Blackheart watched him and said nothing.
They weren't brothers. They had been raised as brothers, but neither of them had ever seen each other that way.
"It's been a while," Darin finally said, turning his gaze away. His eyes were a peculiar shade of grey, almost silver. His hair was white, streaked black in two strands running back from his forehead, and currently tied in a knot on the back of his head. His face was pale, but his hands were red-raw and calloused, accustomed to stripping old rope and making candle wicks from it.
"Been busy," Arlen grunted. There was nowhere to sit, and at any rate Darin hadn't made it clear whether or not he was welcome, so he propped himself against the wall near the front door.
"Lots of worthy victims this season, then," Darin said dryly.
"Not enough," Arlen retorted, just to see him flinch. "Been stuck doing admin and babysitting."
"Oh, I see. Teaching someone else how to make the victims instead."
"No. Trying to avoid it." Arlen's mouth twisted of its own accord. "The kid's a little shit."
Darin shifted, producing a washcloth from the water and a bar of lye and beginning to wash, slowly, as if he was thinking. Arlen tensed. He was about to get turned out into the street again, or he wasn't.
"You know she hasn't got long," Darin finally said.
"I guessed."
"I haven't told her about the money."
"I wouldn't want you to."
Arlen hadn't told anyone about the money, either. If Marick got even a sniff of an idea that Arlen wasn't being honest about his earnings, he'd be floating in the river within hours. But Arlen had been playing the game long enough, and knew how to cover his tracks.
He wasn't even sure why he did it. Since Darin's father had died, Darin had been the only earner. He and his mother had been threatened with eviction, to be relocated into a one room house-share if they didn't make up the difference in earnings the factory lost from Darin's father's absence. Darin would have moved, if his mother wasn't sick, but moving her would overwhelm her, and she was too frail for it. Arlen never struck deals without asking for something in return, ever.
Unless it was Darin.
And Usk knew Arlen was still in contact with Darin and his mother. If Usk knew, that was one more way it could get leaked, one more reason to keep the brute close. If Silas ever found out, ever followed him here... He shuddered. It wasn't worth thinking about.
"I thought the last visit was the last time I was ever going to see you," Darin said, face softening. He was teasing now.
"You pissed me off," Arlen growled. He'd been stupid to come. He always did something stupid when he came here. Every time, he hoped Darin would do something that allowed him to turn his back once and for all, but he never did. Even assassins couldn't run away from a life debt.
"That's not a hard thing to do," Darin said. He stuck a leg out of the water and began picking lint out of his toenails. "Everything pisses you off. I'm surprised you haven't killed me yet."
"Still could."
Darin didn't react, only smiled very faintly and fished in the water to retrieve his washcloth.
"Something's changed," Arlen finally said. "Don't feel safe sending this through the usual channels at the moment." He dug through the satchel and retrieved a leather pouch. It contained a silver Cert and three copper Shil, enough to make four months' rent on the Blackhearts' house. He placed it on the table. Darin didn't move to get out of the tub.
"If anyone finds us with that, Arlen..."
"Hide it, then," Arlen snarled. It was bad enough that he was doing it at all. Once it left his hands it was someone else's problem. "I've got a contact who can break it into change for you, no questions asked, but Nict knows you won't take any advice from me."
"What's changed?" Darin retrieved his drying rag and clambered out, spattering water across the floor. The fire hissed lightly as some droplets flew into the flames.
"Something's going on," Arlen said, "There's something bigger happening and I don't know what it is. My next job..." He stopped himself. "Things might get hairy for a while. I'm not coming here until it dies down."
"Your shitty life choices finally coming to roost, are they?" Darin said dryly. "You shock me."
"Fuck you," Arlen growled. "There's more dignity in it than a candlemaker's lackey."
"Get out, Arlen."
They glared at each other for a long moment. Darin broke the stare, reaching for the leather pouch and looking inside. Arlen put his hand on the door handle. He'd already been here too long.
"Give me that contact," Darin finally muttered. Arlen paused. Darin glowered at him. "I can't give my employer a Cert, he'll want to know where it came from. Give me the contact so I can break it down."
"You got a pen and paper?"
"Do I look like I have a pen and paper?"
Arlen spat. It landed in the fire with a hiss. Darin blinked but held his ground.
"Bell Street," Arlen said, "The accountants' office above the butcher. Ask for Riko and tell him he can knock a Shil off his debt if he keeps quiet. Don't tell him it's your money."
"Killed someone for him, huh?" Darin said flatly. "Wonder who that was. Alright. Thanks."
"His mother," Arlen snapped, just for the satisfaction of seeing Darin's face. He lingered for one moment longer to watch it crumple in disgust, then snatched up his satchel and stalked out into the night.
"Self-righteous fucker," he growled, pulling up his hood as he stalked down the street, anger tight in his chest.
He was still angry when he reached the main body of the festival, which was starting to lose steam. It was long enough now that people began to remember their fear, to remember that demons were still a risk no matter how hard they celebrated. The Unspoken he passed were moving with more purpose now.
He passed a group of revellers gossiping in the street, and caught a snatch of their conversation. He slowed.
"...such a display," one woman said. "He's obviously barely been trained."
"Harkenn looked like he was going to spit blood," said a man.
The woman replied, "I don't blame him. That awful Nict priest showed up, and then the apprentice of his personal Unspoken went and started a brawl with him, I mean, how embarrassing..."
"For fuck's sake," Arlen muttered, changing direction. If Jordan had started a brawl with anybody else Arlen might have taken it as a welcome sign, but with Marcus – it would be a miracle if he'd come out of that unscathed. A lot of the Devils steered clear of Marcus.
He didn't need to reach the castle to find out the outcome. Callan was waiting outside the walls, flanked by two priests, and the milling crowd of returning servants and house staff, all drunk and too high on festival spirit to give him more than a second glance, covered Arlen as he made his way over. Callan waved the two priests away.
"I thought you might hear of it somehow," he said in an undertone, face grim.
"Has he been punished?"
Callan almost came close to a smile. "If you can make the time to come to the temple on the sixthday of any week for the next two months, the boy will be there."
"He's in debt already?" Arlen muttered, scowling, until Callan's meaning registered.
"Yddris is escorting him to and from the temple," Callan said. "But in the meantime."
For the first time that night, Arlen beamed. Callan was offering him unfettered access to Jordan one day a week for the next two months, where that dark-damned tutor of his couldn't get in the way. He knew there would be a price to pay for it; his debt was already steep for the investigations Callan had underway for him, and Marick was undoubtedly going to burst a vein when he realised how much debt Arlen was in, but in the moment he was too relieved to care.
He might finally get free of Silas after all.