Soulkeeper Page 16
The Vikar’s office was separated from the many barracks by a long, carpeted hallway. At its end was a door laced with silver containing a triangle-shaped window in its center. Devin knocked twice and then entered without waiting for a reply.
“Rude as always, I see,” Vikar Forrest Raynard said as he looked up from his chair. As Vikar of the Dusk, he was in charge of all Soulkeepers in West Orismund. He looked like a tower of muscles given long blond hair and then wrapped in a painfully tight black uniform. A silver moon inscribed into the downward point of a triangle hung from a chain around his beefy neck, a larger, more ornate version of the one Devin also wore. The cold gray walls were nearly barren but for a single portrait of Forrest’s wife and children hanging behind his head. Beside his desk leaned his only other decoration: the enormous axe he’d wielded during his time as one of the church’s fiercest Soulkeepers.
There was no chair for his guests to sit, so Devin stood before the desk and crossed his arms over his chest.
“I surveyed the scene as you asked,” he said.
The Vikar leaned back and crossed his arms. “And?”
“And that is some damn nightmare fodder. Do you have any idea what creature of the void did it?”
“No, I don’t,” Forrest said. “But it seemed the Mindkeeper’s blood was turned to gold, did it not? In terms of clues, I have only one to go on, but it’s not here in Londheim. Do you know who Gerag Ellington is?”
“By name only. He’s a merchant of some sort, and a generous donor to the church.”
“A lumber merchant, to be exact,” Forrest said. “And he’s a very generous donor, which means you need to walk on eggshells while interacting with him. Gerag owns a number of lumber camps along the northwest edge of the Oakblack Woods. It seems one of them, Oakenwall, suffered a similar… incident.”
“In what ways?”
“The blood to gold in particular, though I don’t have too many specifics. He reported it to me just yesterday, said he thought this was a matter best left to us than the Royal Overseer’s soldiers. Seems the camp was attacked by a lone individual, with only one man surviving. I haven’t had a chance to send anyone to interview him for further details. Out of all my Soulkeepers, you’re the one with the most experience with the black water and its changes. I feel it best you handle this matter.”
Devin bowed respectfully.
“I will do all I can to prove your judgment correct.”
“Good. Gerag’s mansion is in Quiet District, house number two-seven. Interview the survivor to learn what you can. If you believe it’s connected to Janus, travel to the camp to see the evidence for yourself. Whoever this wretch is, the sooner we put him or her down, the better.”
“What about the living mountain?” Devin asked. “Shouldn’t I be here if it attacks?”
“Oh please, so you can do what? Hit the side of it with your sword? Just do your job. We’re at that thing’s mercy, so there’s no point in preparing for that possibility. No, we’ll keep living our lives and doing what must be done. Right now, that means figuring out who the fuck put one of our Mindkeepers into a goddess-damned wall.”
Devin moved for the door, eager to begin the investigation.
“Oh, and Devin?” the Vikar called as Devin’s hand closed about the door handle.
“Yeah?”
“Remember. Eggshells. With Londheim sliding ass-first into chaos, we can’t afford to lose a single copper penny.”
Land was at a premium in Quiet District, and Devin had a feeling Gerag had come upon his wealth more recently than his neighbors. Though his plot was small, he’d built upon it a tightly cramped spire of a home, at least six stories tall by Devin’s guess. That it was taller than every other home in Quiet District was surely no accident. It was such a ghastly sight, too. With no room to expand, the mansion twisted in on itself, still attempting to fit in gargoyles, windows, and balconies despite the confinement. The painted red wood had faded to an ugly rust color. Combine that with the brown shingles and the mansion looked like a picked scab atop the surface of Londheim.
“Wonderful,” Devin muttered. “Truly the home of a pleasant, humble man.”
A cast-iron fence surrounded the estate, the tops sharpened to an absurd point. Given how far apart they were, and how much higher the tips went above the final crossbeam, anyone who climbed the fence could easily slip over without harm. The appearance of danger was more important than the function. Another good indication that Devin was about to meet with an asshole.
Devin pushed on the front gate. Locked. He sighed and shoved his hands into his coat pockets as he waited. The sun was hidden behind a lazy stretch of clouds, meaning nothing combated the biting chill of autumn. Devin watched the windows, relieved when he finally saw one of the curtains rustle. A servant quickly rushed out the front door and crossed the five stone steps between the door and the gate.
“Forgive me for any delay, Soulkeeper,” the elderly man said as he pulled a ring of keys from his pocket and began fumbling through them. “I assume you are Vikar Forrest’s emissary?”
“Something like that.”
“Good, good. Our master has been worried about the workers in Oakenwall. Very worried, indeed.”
The iron gate rattled, then shuddered open a few feet. Devin slipped through and was surprised when the servant immediately locked the gate behind him.
“Is crime a serious concern here?” he asked.
“With the crawling mountain’s arrival, Master has requested the front gate be locked at all times. He fears potential looters should things turn ill, and his home is precious to him.”
“I see.” Devin winced at the ugly mansion. “Very precious.”
The inside was as hideous as expected. Gold covered everything within visible range of the door, even if it made no sense, such as the gold coat hangers and gilded door handles. Definitely new wealth, then, and Devin doubted it was solely through the lumber trade.
“Follow me, please,” the servant said with a wide gesture of his hand. He led him down the hall and to the right, stopping before a wide oak door with a golden couple in repose above the doorway. “Master Ellington is waiting for you in his study. May your day be kind.”
“And yours one of peace and prosperity,” Devin said, tipping his hat. Swallowing down his unease, he turned the gilded doorknob and stepped inside.
The room was similarly overlavish, except in a different way. Instead of gold everywhere, every inch of the cramped room’s walls was covered with finely detailed paintings, each one no doubt costing a pretty sum. A cursory glance showed scenes of markets and nature from all across the Cradle. The painters’ styles themselves differed wildly, with only one or two landscapes appearing to have been done by the same artist. Devin had a feeling the plump man before him had bought them in bulk, not caring about style or taste but instead whether they were visibly expensive.
“Welcome to my humble abode,” Gerag Ellington said, not rising from his red padded chair. “I hope Belford treated you respectfully.”
“He was most pleasant,” Devin said, guessing Belford to be the servant. “A professional servant often foretells a wise master.”
A little buttering up of the chubby merchant. The smooth words exited his tongue almost on reflex. If he’d have thought about them for even a moment he’d have held them back. Gerag was an unpleasant man, though Devin couldn’t quite place why. His skin was clean, his dark hair neatly trimmed and pulled back from his face. His face, Devin decided. He had a smugly punchable face. When he smiled, it resembled a cross between dog puke and a lizard.
“Yes, yes, sometimes I do feel proper servants are a lost art,” Gerag said. “The soulless have ruined lazy owners, I say. Because they always follow orders, too many think that means soulless need not be carefully trained and observed during their first few years. Often that laziness extends to training of normal servants as well.”
“An interesting thought,” Devin said. It was anything but. Liste
ning to people talk of training the soulless always made him uncomfortable. Like they were dogs and not humans.
“Perhaps, but that’s not why you’re here, no, no, you’re not here to listen to me spout theories.” Gerag gestured to the chair opposite him. “Please, do have a seat.”
Devin sat down and shifted the chair back as much as he could. Like every other room in the mansion, it was a few feet too small to be comfortable.
“My Vikar informed me of an incident at one of your lumber camps,” he said. “Though he only gave me a cursory explanation of what happened.”
“That is because I can only offer a cursory explanation myself,” Gerag said. “You’ll soon see why.” He clapped twice. Belford appeared at the door in an instant. “Bring Broder in here.”
The servant quickly returned with a heavyset man wearing a new pair of trousers and a shirt that did not quite fit right. His hands were callused, his face scarred, and his hair and beard as dark as his eyes. His every movement was quick and fidgety, like a mouse fearful of an unseen cat.
“Greetings, Broder, my name is Devin Eveson. I’m a Soulkeeper of the church.”
Instead of speaking, the man offered his hand as if in greeting, quickly rotated it to either side, and then pointed to his ears. That explained Gerag’s comment, then. Broder was deaf, and could not speak because of it.
A long-standing tradition of the Keeping Church was to care for many men and women deemed unfit to work or live on their own. They were known as Alma’s Beloved, and they were taught skills of artistry and music with the finest teachers Orismund could offer. Over the centuries a hand lexicon had been coded and standardized for use in the church’s cathedrals, and Devin had been taught that lexicon as part of his training as a Soulkeeper. He repeated his greeting, this time with a similar curling gesture of his wrist, followed by a quick spelling of his first name.
“Good, you two can communicate with one another,” Gerag said. “It’s been rough getting a story out of Broder since he returned from Oakenwall. He knows his letters, but not very well, and his ability to draw isn’t much better.”
“We can communicate, yes, but only in simple concepts,” Devin said. Since Gerag had not yet offered, he pointed to one of the chairs so Broder might take a seat. The big man squeezed into the chair, and he looked decidedly uncomfortable. Devin noticed he held several small scraps of paper.
I look? he signed to Broder.
Broder reluctantly handed over the pages.
“Every week the finest, smoothest-cut boards arrive by wagon at Londheim’s gates,” Gerag said as Devin looked the pages over. “Yesterday they missed their first shipment in two years. Instead Broder arrived, alone. Those pictures are the best we could get out of him as to what happened. The one thing that is clear is my workers are not safe, if they’re even alive at all.”
That was putting it mildly. Broder’s pictures were drawn with charcoal, and they showed multiple people in various states of disembowelment. One, though, appeared perfectly fine, yet Broder had circled the lower half of him multiple times. Devin pointed at it and lifted his eyebrow. Broder responded by signing letters one by one.
G. O. L. D.
Gold? The man’s entire lower body was… gold?
After seeing the corpse embedded into the wall that morning, it shouldn’t have seemed so preposterous to him, yet still it seemed to lack any sense or reason to it. Assuming this Janus person wielded the power to change people into gold, why use it on a person? And why only the lower half?
Broder perceived his confusion and pointed a meaty finger at the upper half of the man.
Black, he signed.
Devin had assumed that the upper half was colored that way because of the nature of drawing with charcoal.
Black? Devin signed back to show his lack of understanding. Broder thudded his hands on his knees as he thought.
Dead, he signed. Insects. Time.
Devin took another look at the drawing, piecing the words together. The lower half was gold, the upper half rotted flesh, perhaps filled with maggots or worms. The punishment wasn’t rational, but symbolic. Devin tried to imagine what it’d be like to witness such a horrid fate inflicted on another and shuddered. No wonder Broder looked pale and constantly in fear of his own shadow.
All dead? he asked Broder. No alive?
Yes.
“Well?” Gerag asked.
“No survivors by the sound of it,” Devin said.
“Then why’d he survive?”
A good question. His frown deepened, and he chewed on the side of his mouth as he thought for a way to phrase his next question.
Why you? he asked. Why alive?
Broder blushed slightly. He pointed to himself and then signed a word many people throughout the Cradle could imitate even without knowing any of the lexicon.
“He was defecating outside the camp,” Devin explained to Gerag. He stared at the bizarre mutilations, and he imagined dozens of men all suffering such brutal fates, those that didn’t have their bodies turned to rot and gold.
“Do you know who did this?” he asked.
Broder gestured to the last of the drawings. It was of a man with long hair, a heavy coat, and completely filled-in leggings. An arrow pointed to the left side of his head, along with a clumsily written word: green.
Green hair? Devin asked him.
Yes. Left. Right black.
So a man with green hair on half his head, black on the other, a long black coat, and black trousers. The description was definitely unique enough that it might be worth putting on a poster throughout the city. He made a note to speak with Vikar Forrest about it before any departure to Oakenwall.
Name? he asked, pointing to the drawing. He did not expect one, but to his surprise Broder signed the word for tree, followed by five letters.
J. A. N. U. S.
Devin handed back the drawings and thanked him. That was it, all he needed to know for this to be his top priority. Whoever had killed the Mindkeeper that morning had struck the lumber camp days beforehand. If there were other survivors, he had to find them and ensure their safety. The Janus monster clearly represented a supernatural threat, one whose nature they knew painfully little about.
Gerag noticed their conversation was over and summoned Belford to take the man back to his room. Devin stood and took him by the wrist.
I pray, and then gestured, for you.
Thank you, Broder signed. A little bit of life returned to his sunken eyes, and Devin wished nothing but the best for him. Once the man was gone he turned to the merchant.
“This is definitely a matter I shall investigate personally,” he said. “I’ll leave tomorrow at first light.”
“Excellent. Before you go, I’d like to make one request, and that is for one of my soulless to accompany you.”
“Is that so?” Devin’s face twitched. “Might I ask why?”
Gerag clapped his hands instead of answering. The door to the study creaked open. Belford poked his head inside.
“Fetch Jacaranda for me, please.”
“At once, Master.”
Devin sat back down and fought for patience. Of course Gerag would make additional demands. Most of the time Soulkeepers were requested by entire villages, as in Dunwerth. The needs were significant, and the contract made with an understanding to that significance. Devin vowed his life to fulfill the stated need. Someone like Gerag? Requesting a Soulkeeper was no different than hiring an expensive mercenary. The Keeping Church would humor him so long as he kept his coffers open. It was the greatest reason why Devin preferred working in the wildlands to the far west instead of in Londheim.
“So Jacaranda is an interesting name,” Devin said, deciding the silence was slightly more uncomfortable than discussion.
“It is indeed, but I chose it with care.” Gerag rubbed his hands together eagerly. “Have you been to the Vibrant Isle, particularly the southern half of it?”
“Sadly, I have never been.”
“Jacaranda trees, native only to the Isle. They’re a wonder to behold, my most favorite, truly… and so is my Jacaranda.”
The door opened, and Jacaranda stepped inside. She was a smaller woman, pale of skin and similar in age to Devin. The hollow chain of interconnected circles tattooed across her throat marked her as one of the soulless. She wore a plain white shirt and a black pair of slacks buckled tightly at her slender waist. Her hair was fiery red and hung loose past her shoulders. True to her name, he saw her eyes were a deep violet. Devin started to rise from his seat and had to remind himself that such manners were unnecessary.
“I was requested,” she said with the perfectly monotonous voice only soulless could create.
“Indeed, you were,” Gerag said. “Jacaranda, this is Devin Eveson. You will be accompanying him on his mission to Oakenwall.”
The woman turned her gaze to Devin. Their eyes met, and she stared for so long it made him uneasy.
“I see,” she said.
Devin turned away from her.
“Mister Ellington, I understand the people of Oakenwall are important to you,” he said. “But I do not have the time to keep an eye on one of your servants.”
“Forgive me, Soulkeeper, but she’s there to keep an eye on you,” Gerag said. “I want Oakenwall investigated thoroughly, and there are matters to be dealt with that will not concern you when it comes to the leadership at the camp.”
“The land is dangerous now, and…”
“And Jacaranda can take care of herself,” Gerag interrupted. Anger flashed across his face, ugly and surprisingly fierce. It vanished as quickly as it came, replaced by an unnerving giddiness. “She is my personal guardian, so I assure you she is very well trained. I know the world is a dangerous place, but with my precious Jacaranda at your side, you will be that much safer.”
“If you insist,” Devin said, deciding not to bother protesting. Even if he put his foot down, a simple message to Vikar Forrest would likely overrule his decision.