Shell District
“Well, the evening is still young,” Berend says, rising from the table. “Shall we?”
The sun has set out of the range of the narrow window, but the sky is still light, a soft blue-gray tinged with fiery orange. Sailors and dockworkers are filling the bar, encroaching on the space around the corner table. They have a somber demeanor about them, besides the normal heaviness of a long day’s work, and their eyes dart warily across the room; word of the lighthouse keeper’s murder must have spread.
Isabel stands as well. She hasn’t finished her wine, and apparently has no intent to. Berend leaves one more coin for the bartender before following her out.
The sky continues to darken as they make their way to the Temple District. Isabel watches the lighthouse, silhouetted against the gentle colors of the horizon, until the light comes on. Nothing obstructs it but the boundaries of its own casement.
Her expression is neutral, but Berend thinks he hears a small sigh of relief. Sentinel or no, the scene she had described would unsettle anyone. The thought that the murderer still wanders the city isn’t sitting easily with Berend, either.
Did he really try to summon a demon in the Shell District? With Mikhail’s blood?
Berend pushes that thought aside. According to Isabel, it didn’t work, and there is no reason to believe that it would. Besides, he hasn’t believed in demons since he was a child, though the Church of the Seven teaches that they exist and the faithful should be ever wary.
But when he thinks of the bloody smears painted up and down the Shell District shanties, he feels rather like the small boy he once was, waking his elder brother in the middle of the night for reassurance that the shadow he had seen moving was just a tree in the wind. It’s not a feeling he enjoys.
The Temple District is encouraging in its well-lit solidity. Berend can’t imagine demons lurking between the churches, as much for the lack of shadows as for the clean, modern lines of the buildings. Demons are creatures of ages past, he thinks, of superstition and ignorance, and not of the world as it is now.
Outside the door to the church of Alcos stands a row of white marble pillars, gleaming even in the streetlights. The interior is more old-fashioned, all red drapery and gold icons, staring blank-faced and wide-eyed at each other from opposite sides of the hall.
Berend has never liked Alcos’s churches, though it feels blasphemous to admit. There is a sense that he doesn’t belong here, that he stands out even in his fine clothes, and everyone from the priests to the icons to the parishioners is looking at him with disapproval.
He takes off his hat. No one so much as looks up from their prayers and work, and the icons continue to stare over his head. There is nothing to fear here. Still, he tells Isabel that he’ll wait for her, and stays in the vestibule near the door.
A group of four youths converses nearby, punctuating their dialogue with expansive gestures. Two are dressed in the red-trimmed brown habits of novices, one of which holds a broom, though his sweeping has long been abandoned. The others wear linen shirts and long trousers, well-made but often mended.
“All you’d have is more animated dead,” says the young man with the broom.
One of the lay youths shakes his head. “Maybe a few, maybe one or two, but wouldn’t that be worth it, to find out what makes them walk again?”
“You’ll never convince people to allow it,” the other novice says. “Would you want to be cut up after you die? Have someone’s arms all up in your belly?”
Berend catches sight of Isabel. She’s speaking with a bearded priest in a red robe, his shoulders twice as wide as hers. She produces something small and shiny from her pocket and places it into the father’s meaty hand.
“It wouldn’t be you or me,” the second boy argues. “It would be someone they found in the river or something. Someone who would just end up in the blue field anyway.”
The priest holds the object up to the light. Berend only has one eye, but it’s still sharp even after years of night watches, and he can see that it’s a bead just like the ones hanging from the priest’s belt.
The thought occurs to him that the murderer might be an actual priest, not just someone dressed as one. As stern and intimidating as Alcos’s priests are, Berend can’t bring himself to believe it. For her part, Isabel certainly hadn’t mentioned the possibility, and she knew more than he did.
“Besides, they’ve already got bodies up at the university,” the fourth boy interjects.
The novice with the broom scoffs. “You don’t really believe that, do you?”
With a solemn nod, the broad priest hands the bead back to Isabel. She touches a hand to her chest and bows before turning back toward the door.
“What did he say?” Berend asks as she approaches.
“He’ll confer with the others, and keep a close watch,” says Isabel. “He’s hopeful they will find something.”
It’s a promise, and not much else. It seems they’re on their own for the foreseeable future.
They go to the chapel on the blue field for Isabel’s sword, and then to the Fox and Dove for Berend’s weapons. By the time they stand at the entrance to the Shell District once more, it’s fully dark, the city walls obscuring what little light remains at the western horizon.
“Where now?” Isabel asks.
If he’s honest, Berend isn’t sure, though he won’t say that out loud. The Shell District isn’t where he likes to spend his time, and now he likes it even less. The buildings loom over him, seeming to sway ever so slightly in the gentle evening wind. He looks around.
“This is about the time the constable found Mikhail,” he says finally. “We could talk to him again. Should be the same shift.”
“I’ll follow your lead,” says Isabel.
With more confidence than he feels, Berend sets off toward the old plaza.
It no longer smells of wet earth and blood. As he gets closer, Berend can see why—the finger-like growths that came up from the circle reached a height of six or eight inches before dying, and now are dried out and crumbling. Most of the growths are broken, and the ends lie in the street, disintegrating into a fine reddish dust.
Constable Mulhy stands at one of the wider routes into the space, blocking what little traffic might try to pass through at this time of day. He looks tired, his young face drawn, and a slight halo of blondish stubble is visible whenever he turns his head.
He catches sight of Berend and straightens up. “Mr. Horst. Sentinel. I’m sorry, you can’t go through here. Captain’s orders.”
“That’s quite all right,” Berend says. “I actually wanted to speak with you. We’re continuing our investigation.”
Mulhy’s face brightens, though it does nothing to improve the dark circles under his eyes. “I’ve actually spoken with some officers from the other districts, about the previous victims the monk at the chapel mentioned. I think I’ve found out who they were.”
Berend looks at him blankly. “What other victims? Do you mean at the lighthouse? He’s already been identified.”
“There were two others, before,” says Isabel. “Risoven said they were all torn to pieces, but he didn’t mention any marks or symbols.”
“Were you going to mention this to me at any point?” Berend asks, more harshly than he means to.
Isabel does not react to his raised voice. “I hadn’t thought about it after what happened at the lighthouse,” she says. “I apologize.”
Berend suspects, and perhaps he is being uncharitable as he does so, that Isabel does not consider him an equal partner in this investigation. It’s church business, after all, and she’s the Sentinel. He’s half tempted to give it up and let her do it on her own, but Mikhail deserves better, and Berend might be the only one looking out for him in all of Mondirra.
“The first was a vagrant, name unknown—Officer Burne of the River District found him washed up in the harbor,” says Mulhy. “And then Officer Montfort of the Orchard District found a beggar woman by the name of Perla. Both constables say the same thing: they were found cut up and drained of blood.” He shudders.
“But there weren’t any marks?” Berend gestures to the crumbling fungus. “Nothing like this?”
“No, nothing.”
Berend doesn’t know which is worse: that these murders are all connected, and there have been at least four victims, or that they are not, and there are multiple murderers stalking the streets. “Has the Shell District constabulary been able to confer with the other districts?” he asks.
“We’re trying,” says Mulhy. “It’s a bit of a process, and well above my rank, I’m afraid.”
“All right.” Berend sighs. It’s well above his own rank, as well, or it would be if he had one. He’s only a sword for hire, now, and not as young and strong as he once was.
But he was a Son of Galaser, and so was Mikhail. He’s got to do this.
“Well, Constable,” he begins, “I should first warn you. According to Miss Rainier here, the victim at the lighthouse was killed by someone dressed as a priest of Alcos. We’ve already been to the church and informed them, but you should keep an eye out.”
Mulhy nods. “I’ll let my superiors know.”
“Secondly, I was hoping for your help. I’m looking for someone who might know what goes on under the noses of the constabulary, if you catch my meaning,” Berend continues. “Someone who might be unhappy to find a murderer in what he sees as his territory. Who is the prince of thieves in the Shell District?”
“You’d be looking for a fellow calling himself Sterry the Bastard,” Mulhy says, crossing his arms, “though you’ll be hard-pressed to find him. He moves around frequently, and he won’t speak to any constables, and neither will his informants.”
Berend gives him a grim smile. “How fortunate that I’m not a constable, then.”
Mulhy eyes Berend’s sword. “You’re not intending to kill him, are you?”
“No, not at the moment,” Berend says. It’s unlikely, though not impossible, that a thief would commit this sort of murder, and even less likely that Mr. the Bastard has even heard of the Luminous Codex. “I just want to know what he knows.”
“We would really rather you didn’t. After he ousted his rival last year, things have been rather quiet.” With a glance toward the wall beside him, Mulhy adds, “Well. Until recently.”
“If he prefers it quiet, then he should have the same goals as you in this instance,” says Berend.
Mulhy shrugs. “I suppose so, but I don’t pretend to know what he might be thinking.”
“Then it falls to me to find out.” Berend tips his hat and runs his finger along the brim with a flourish. “Thank you for your help, Constable.”
He sets off around the plaza, avoiding the circle. More officers have been posted at each entrance, and he certainly won’t find what he’s looking for in there.
“Where are we going?” Isabel asks.
“Well,” he replies, “first we have to find the busiest and seediest tavern in the district.” He thinks he can hear one, a few blocks away.
“And then what?”
A plan, though very loose, is forming in Berend’s mind. “Trust me,” he says.
Isabel gives him a dubious look, but she doesn’t argue.
The tavern is lit from the outside by a single street lamp, and from within by some sputtering lanterns. The smell of smoke and sour beer pours from the doorway, along with the din of shouting and off-key singing. It’s the perfect place to lose one’s purse, and even better to get lost in oneself.
“We shouldn’t be seen together,” Berend says. “I need to go in and talk to a few people. It shouldn’t take long.”
Isabel frowns. “Should I wait outside?”
“No, too obvious. Come in a bit after me and stay close to the door. You can leave after I do. And don’t watch me. Someone will notice you staring.” This tavern is no place for a lady, but he suspects she’ll be cross with him if he points that out. What’s a few drunkards compared to a haunting? Besides, it will help if someone as out of place as a Sentinel draws some attention away from him.
Berend takes off his hat and enters, putting on a demeanor he hopes is the right mix of confident and furtive. He keeps one hand on the hilt of his sword as he shoulders through the crowd. The patrons mostly ignore him, intent on their own business.
He sets a handful of silver coins on the bar. That gets their attention.
The barkeeper, an older man with a jagged scar that reaches from his brow to his receding hairline, studies Berend and his money with a calculating look. “Can I help you, stranger?”
Berend leans his elbow on the bar, resting the other hand on his sword. “I’m looking to do some business,” he says. “I have some merchandise I’m looking to sell at a very reasonable price, and I understand that there’s someone in this district that might be interested.”
The barkeeper doesn’t answer, but he takes the coins and sets a greasy glass of what might be gin in front of Berend. As Berend watches, he talks to a heavyset man with a knife poorly concealed in his coat, who shoves his way back out toward the door.
As instructed, Isabel sits at the farthest table, her hat in both hands. The patrons whisper and point, but they haven’t tried to approach her.
Berend swallows some of the gin. It doesn’t taste quite as bad as it looks. He waits.
He doesn’t turn to look when a brief hush falls over the tavern; he knows how not to look nervous. A pair of arms, tattooed in blue-ink swirls, rests on the bar beside him. They’re attached to a man with a face like a slab of meat, half a head taller than Berend. The other patrons give him a small but noticeable distance.
Berend isn’t lucky enough for this to be Sterry the Bastard himself, but he’s hopeful that he’s getting closer.
“What brings you to the Shell District?” the man asks. His voice is like the low groan of a ship’s timbers.
“Business,” Berend says. “I’ve heard there’s an individual here that might be interested in what I have to offer. I think it will be mutually profitable.”
“Hm. How profitable?”
“That depends on this individual’s scope of vision, my friend,” says Berend with a smile. “I’m afraid I can only make the offer to him.”
“That’s a tall order,” the man says. He leans back, folding his arms over his chest. The ink shifts and ripples.
“I’d make it worth your while,” Berend says. “As a show of good faith.” He counts out some more coins on the bar, enough to turn a few additional heads.
The man raises a brow, eyeing Berend, and then he sweeps up the money with one motion of a heavy, scarred hand. “I can’t make any promises, but if you were to find yourself at the Jeweled Chalice this evening, you might find what you’re looking for.”
Berend nods. “I will see where the night takes me. Have a pleasant evening.”
That was easier than expected. Maybe his luck is improving.
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