The Forbidding Blue Page 5

  Brenol was not prepared for what he saw. Humor drained from his face, along with any color, as he absorbed the sight—and smell.

  Three corpses lay pooled in dark scarlet, faces down. A fourth hunched over a side table with arms both thin and black as soot. Winter giay flies teemed, filling the air with incessant humming. The stench was oppressive, making Brenol’s eyes water as he fought the impulse to retch. He swerved his vision from the scene and examined the rest of the room.

  The house was fairly dark, although some early evening light filtered in through the circular windows and open doorway. All furniture was wooden, as were the floors, and worn with age and use. There were a dining table and two chairs, with grain pronounced and rough, resting in what must have been the main of the house. There were no rugs, drapes, or decorations of any kind. A closed doorway stood solidly next to the stove, presumably leading to the bedroom.

  A small, mousey man with thinning hair sat perched upon a black stool in curled attention. He used various widths of pencil to tirelessly duplicate the room before him on a thick pad resting atop his raised thigh. His thin, metal glasses rounded his already circular face. A glance at the sheet was more than enough for Brenol’s still queasy stomach: the man had skill. The rest of the polina loitered around observing the diminutive figure, awaiting his work’s completion.

  Arman collected the whole of the room with steady eyes and eventually tapped Brenol slightly before swishing to a corner.

  A maroon-decked man pressed his lips tightly together as he regarded the approaching juile. Golden pins lined his suit where the other men had buttons. The man leaned his frame forward in a bow, muttering in a husky and hushed voice, “I pray it will be bountiful, Arman.”

  Their eyes locked for a moment, and a piece of communication was exchanged. Brenol watched without comprehension.

  Arman returned the bow and spoke in turn. “Bountiful indeed.”

  “I need not ask why you’re here,” the man said solemnly.

  Now that Brenol was closer—the poor light obscured much—he could see that lines and age creased the man’s chiseled features. He was about sixty orbits, with a sturdy and fit frame and ebony-brown hair streaked with white. His eyes were sharp and a deep navy blue, but exhaustion marked his light-brown face.

  Brenol observed the hardened glance and the stiff spine within the striking uniform and felt an instantaneous respect: power resided in this person—of mind, of body, of will. Here was a man honed and formed from time and experience and struggle.

  “Nor I, you. How many had the fever, Marek?” Arman asked as his eyes retraced the room.

  “The fever? Oh, one.” His eyebrows furrowed and his gaze narrowed. “Perhaps I do need to ask why you’re here.”

  Arman’s eyes met the dark blue boldly. He did not utter a word, until finally Marek nodded in silence. It was not a backing down—this was not a man who was capable of such—but an understanding. There were things not to be discussed openly.

  “Three of these houses have bodies like this. They’ve already been pictured and the corpses removed. This was the last.” Marek raised his shoulder in a futile effort to drive the giay from his face. “The fever had obviously come at some point, but I’d guess it was long before all of this. It’s been more afterthought than focus for us.”

  Brenol lifted his hand slightly. “Bren,” he said by way of introduction as Marek’s navy pools regarded him coolly. “Are there any people missing who should be here?”

  A spark of appraisal flickered. “Two,” Marek replied. “Both children. Alerts and seals have been sent out across the terrisdans and lugazzi. Polina are already searching.”

  “Their ages?” Arman asked.

  “The boy, Javeb, is fourteen orbits. The girl, Sereen, is no more than ten.”

  “How many total are dead? Including the fever?” Arman asked.

  “Thirteen…” Marek’s shoulders sagged. “First the visnati incident, what, seven orbits ago? Eight? And now this?” He stared hard at his work-toughened hands. “Things in Garnoble are not what they once were… And two children missing, too.” His voice was weak.

  “I am sorry, Marek. This is an evil indeed.”

  The man merely nodded with a swift movement of his muscular neck and extended his index finger out toward the room. “Have freedom. I’ll not impede you.”

  Arman flicked his palm out in a juile gesture—a sign of both camaraderie and thanks. Marek pressed his lips together and returned his gaze to the mousey artist.

  Come, Arman clicked, and Brenol bounded after him. The juile strode across the floors of the house, barely taking notice of cadaver or aroma. He teased his transparent fingers across and under furniture and issued directions in his low bass. “We must examine everything.”

  “But what do you think could be hidden?” Brenol asked.

  “Someone may have left a clue for us.”

  Brenol paled. “Like they knew death was coming?”

  Arman’s grimace was answer enough. After a few steps, the juile halted and turned to Brenol with a whisper. “These children… One could easily be the malitas.”

  Brenol’s jaw clamped together as Arman returned to his hunt, and the juile’s words sent his imagination reeling. Rabid youth flittered about his thoughts, and their evil black eyes bore into him behind contorted faces of innocence. He shuddered and pressed back into his labors.

  The house was not large, and the two foraged with dogged determination, but in the end they were left with nothing. Arman motioned to Marek—they would continue in the other buildings—and the man granted a consenting nod.

  The cold jolted Brenol’s nerves as they exited. He glanced around the little neighborhood in bewilderment; aside from the maroon suits, the land betrayed nothing of the massacre. It was a crisp, mellow evening. Brenol retied his coppery crop and followed the pedasse left along the snowy walk.

  The remaining search was frustrating and amounted only to a sorry loss of time. The light dimmed, and soon twilight crept across the land and left Brenol’s eyes straining. His overused fingers felt dulled and clumsy, like their abilities had been worn smooth as a river rock in a rushing bed. By nightfall, Brenol was hot and dirty, weak from hunger, aching from their earlier travels, and short-tempered. He scowled and threw his body upon the freshly swept floors.

  “There’s nothing here,” Brenol said in defeat.

  The lack taunts me—it is purposeful, Arman mused. He gave a final sigh, bent through the doorway, and straightened his frame in the chilly dark. There had been too many long hours with curved spine in the small homes. “Let’s eat,” he said wearily.

  Brenol nodded and followed the juile under the soft light of the double moons. The air was sharply cold and felt delicious on his hot skin. He breathed deeply of Garnoble’s fragrances, listening always for the voice of the land. It was silent, but Brenol had expected it would be.

  After several minutes the cool began to bite, and Brenol huddled into his coat and tugged it tightly around him. His breath issued out in quick clouds, and the night embraced him with the fresh still.

  Colette is warm, Brenol thought and his face softened. Wrapped up and sipping tea, I’d guess.

  His thoughts paused as they approached the local inn. It doubled as tavern, and when the juile pressed the heavy wooden door open, light, sound, and heat burst forth. Brenol smiled, for the scents—and possibility of a bath—were inviting, even if he would have preferred the crackling solitude of a campfire.

  The juile selected an old, grainy table in the far corner, and Brenol slumped into a worn wooden chair. His whole body ached. Arman positioned himself before the nearby hearth to stare into the bouncing flames. It was only with the arrival of dinner and drink that Arman abandoned his ruminations, and the two wielded their wooden spoons with purpose.

  The food revived Brenol swiftly, and he surged with relief as his mind ground back to life, even if only to wrestle anew with the events of the day.

  “Why
do such a thing?” Brenol mused aloud. “And draw so much attention?”

  “I do not know. I cannot discern its motives.”

  Brenol chewed his stew slowly. It was not exceptionally good, but at least it was thick and hot. “Is this the most violence yet?”

  Arman furrowed his brow. “It is a thought.” He thought back to Arista’s account of the dead children, hanging from trees like ornaments. “But I would argue it has likely been more a lack of our seeing the efforts than malitas not exhibiting them.”

  “What does the spirit get from such a show?”

  Arman flinched. “Sowing discord? War? Making us all feel helpless and without aid?”

  Brenol nodded but was soon distracted as the server approached. He accepted another bowl and drained his glass. He dunked his warm, crusty bread into the hot liquid and leaned forward in studied concentration. Soup dribbled down his stubbly chin, and he wiped it with a brush of the sleeve. He glanced up from the meal to catch an unfamiliar expression on the juile’s face.

  Arman is worried, he realized, but allowed the juile quiet to mull over his thoughts.

  Brenol finally pushed his half-eaten bowl away and curled a hand around a hot brown mug that had arrived but a few minutes previously. It soothed with a brown sugar sweetness, carried an unusual hint of barley, and had a bite that left him warm and sinking into his seat. He sipped it contentedly, allowing the tingle to push into legs and arms and dull the scarlet images of death that clung so tightly to his memory.

  If there ever was a day that needed a drink…

  He noticed a familiar face ambling toward their table. It was Marek, but without the dark crimson attire of the polina. His creamy brown face seemed less angular now, as though the absence of the uniform’s rigid lines had turned his features more human. The oak-dappled locks lay casually, and the man’s gait hinted at several drinks. Marek’s eyes, however, were the same quick, dark blue pools; his intellect and intuition were clearly affected by neither drink nor din.

  The man bowed lightly, perhaps in the hopes of keeping formalities to a minimum. He raised his eyebrows in question and then scraped a chair across the floor—hardly noticeable amidst laughter and music—after Brenol issued a consenting nod. The young man threw a strong hand in the air with a thumb and his first two digits extended, and it was not long before three fresh drinks were sloshed down upon the uneven surface.

  Marek lifted his beading glass, drained half, clunked the drink back to the table, and wiped the froth from his face with the back of a woolly hand. He leaned forward and spoke in a low voice. “We found nothing today. Please tell me you did better.”

  Arman’s face carried only hard, grim lines. He shook his swarthy head.

  Marek exhaled heavily. His face loosened, resigned, but his gaze still carried the spark of driven purpose. “I feared as much… I was glad to have another’s eyes and hands, though. You see more than you speak.”

  Arman gave a subdued smile of acceptance. “It is bountiful to be here with you… How is your family?”

  Marek’s features opened in soft joy. “Clarena just had her second. She is living close to me and Mariael. But not too close.” He granted a knowing smile and raised his glass again. He brought it down with a coughing choke. “Bounty forgotten, Arman! My memory is slower every day. I meant to send seal before. I’m sorry about Carn. I know he was a good friend.” Marek reached over and gave the juile’s robed forearm a courteous touch of the palm. “May he reach greater heights in the next.”

  Arman straightened. He towered over the table even in his chair. “Carn? I had no word, no seal from any.” His onyx eyes were sharp but ruminative. “What happened?”

  Marek did not recognize it, but Brenol certainly did: there was an edge in that tone. Arman was as taut as a bow string in autumn.

  “The black fever. It hit Granallat over two orbits ago. Or was it three? I know Carn’s soumme…uh—”

  “Dierdre,” offered Arman softly.

  “Yes, that’s it, isn’t it? She got the fever. Carn died too, although there’d been strange rumors as to the reasons. The town was pretty devastated. I’m surprised you weren’t informed.” Marek’s face was sincere in sympathy. “I know you were close, at least at one time.”

  “We were, indeed. Thank you, Marek. I am glad to have been told, even under these circumstances. May death’s reins lead them to greater heights,” Arman intoned, raising his sweating glass with a sociable, though somber, air. The two drained their mugs while Brenol watched quietly.

  After a time, Marek lumbered to his feet, his frame revealing its weariness, and bid his departure. He brushed past the other tables, offering a word or two at each, paid the bar, and sidled out the front door that ushered in a gusty rush of cold and snow.

  Arman mindlessly let a handful of freg clatter from hand to table and strode to the back stairway. He led Brenol up the winding and creaking steps. It was so dark after the brightness of the tavern that Brenol was left straining his eyes for vision, though Arman moved forward as if in the confidence of day. His feet echoed upon the old floorboards, and he purposefully swished to the third room in the hallway.

  They were small quarters, with two pallets thrown upon worn wooden floors. While not the cleanest of rooms, it was at least brightened by a single candle burning upon the desk. The wick smoldered heavily and made the light jump in odd patterns as the flame dodged to and fro. They entered and allowed their belongings to slide in a crash to the floor.

  Brenol was stepping over to trim the unruly wick when Arman spoke.

  “Bren.” His voice was thin, like it issued from a hollow chest.

  It startled the young man. He forgot the task and turned to his friend with a concerned brow. “What is it?”

  “I must go. Carn…Carn was a very good friend. He…he also knew about Heart Render.”

  “I’ll go with you,” he replied immediately.

  “No,” Arman said sharply, but his speech softened as he explained. “No, no. We cannot miss our meeting with Dresden. He’ll be at Gare, outside of Brovingbune. And likely soon, if I know my sealtor well. We need that information from him.”

  “About the fever? Or is there anything else?”

  Arman flicked his fingers out—his equivalent to a shoulder shrug. “He might know more than he realizes… Has he seen any with the fever before death took them? Darse’s mother orbits and orbits ago cannot have been the only case seen alive with it. Is he noticing changes? Patterns in the illness? I’m sure he has been chasing it himself. You will know the questions. I trust you, Bren… I just have to see what went on with Carn. Maybe there is something that can pull this mystery out of the mud.”

  Brenol could not hide his pity. “Do you really think there’ll be anything there? After all this time?”

  Again Arman flicked his fingers, but he understood Brenol’s implications. “Whether I do this for our mission or for me, I know I must go.”

  Brenol nodded; grief was a strange beast. “So I meet him at an inn in Gare? Which one?”

  Arman barely slid his head sideways. “There is only one.”

  “Where do I send seal after I meet with Dresden? Or will you meet me somewhere?”

  Arman sliced his hand through the air forcefully. “Do not set anything down in seal, unless it is in code. I do not want our communication to be intercepted by a reckless hand… Wait for me in Gare. I will be there no more than four days from tomorrow.”

  “And Darse?”

  “Find a sealtor in the morning. Have Darse meet you in Gare. If we cannot be there, we will send another seal to meet him on his route.”

  “Where did Carn live?” Brenol asked gently.

  “Granallat, central Granallat,” he said with trailing voice.

  Flat-landed countryside swept across Brenol’s mind. He had traveled Massada with Colette in the celebration period after taking the vows of soumme. Granallat had not been his favorite place. Barren, dusty, more brown than green. It was a bleak
land before the icing. He could not begin to imagine its condition now.

  Brenol reached over with a sturdy hand and grasped the juile’s long forearm. He gazed up into his friend’s dark eyes. “Do not leave without resting first. Even you need sleep, Arman.”

  The juile nodded in a strangely obedient manner and lowered himself onto the closest pallet. His black eyes rose and found Brenol’s dark green. They were conflicted, housing a stormy mixture of darkness and grief.

  Brenol exhaled, wishing he had the appropriate words, and Arman broke the gaze by settling into his blankets. The juile sank into sleep with the immediacy of his kind, leaving Brenol to fight his way into unconsciousness.

  CHAPTER 5

  The seasons themselves shall herald the Change.

  -Genesifin

  Arman crept about, moving across the floorboards with a quiet precision, and Brenol—awake—squinted in wonder; Arman walked in pitch black.

  As the juile swished out, Brenol turned in his blankets and whispered to the silhouette in the shadowy doorway, “See you in Gare, friend.” He released a breath that had hung suspended throughout his sleepless night; separation held little appeal.

  The indistinct head bent in brief acknowledgment, but then the entire figure bowed low. Even the juile’s shadows seemed to glide about in mysterious grace. “It has been bountiful.” His voice was its same staunch bass, yet laced with an unusual edge.

  A strange fear flickered over Brenol’s heart in that moment, but he let it slide away as water along an icicle. Arman was the embodiment of competence. It would be utterly useless to wring his hands over a nighttime tremble.