The Book of the New Moon Door: Chapter Nineteen

Revelation

Table of Contents

Belisia.

In the back of Berend’s mind, a ghost screams. He thought—more hoped, really—that he put all that behind him, but here it is, staring him in the face again. If this scar-faced boy was sent to kill him, it means someone is afraid Berend will drag the esteemed name of Belisia through the mud. That means that nothing is being done about their favored younger son, and there will be no justice for the girl he murdered. 

Sixteen hells. 

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Berend maintains a menacing scowl and the pistol against the boy’s knee, setting the sword aside. With his free hand, he opens his assailant’s coat and begins pulling knives from the interior pockets. 

“Tell me,” he says, “which of the distinguished bearers of that name paid you?”

The boy’s eyes dart back and forth. He’s avoiding Berend’s face. “If I tell you, will you let me go?”

“I might.”

If he’s being honest, he feels sorry for the kid, now that he’s not flinging knives in Berend’s general direction. He’s probably an orphan, or he inherited his profession—it’s hard to say which would be worse. The scar on his face suggests an even rougher time of it than usual. If Berend doesn’t kill him, the Belisias might. If he’s handed over to the constabulary instead, he’ll be headed for the gallows, and sooner if he tries to implicate a noble house no one would suspect. There’s no evidence left at the manor, and slander would only add to his crimes.

“It was the old man,” the boy says, holding Berend’s gaze for a few seconds as a show of faith. “Lord Edwan.”

Berend sighs. He could have guessed. It was unwise of Lord Edwan not to go through a proxy, or a series of go-betweens, but funds might be short after the debacle at the manor. 

He could have had the decency to bribe me, first. Bastard.

Still, it gives him some small satisfaction to think that the murdered girl is draining the Belisia’s funds. It would be little comfort to her, however, if Warder’s device had rent her soul to pieces. 

If she had ended up like Mikhail, and Berend had helped it happen.

He shouldn’t be dealing with this. There’s a murderer on the loose, and a place in the West Gate that he can’t get to no matter how hard he tries, and a Son of Galaser who still hasn’t properly been put to rest. He has enough to do without worrying that every shadow and alleyway might be hiding an assassin out for his blood. 

If nothing else, he decides, he considers his contract with the Belisias to be void. He has always prided himself on never going back on his word, but he has to draw the line somewhere. 

Berend pulls the last knife from the boy’s left boot. There are at least a dozen of them in total, lying just out of arm’s reach. 

He can hear boots on the pavement, and the shouts of men. The constabulary has finally taken notice. It took them long enough. 

The kid doesn’t deserve to hang. He’s young, he could turn things around—not that Berend is the one to give him any advice. But he’s not the one who murdered the girl, and he’s not the one who’s trying to cover it up. Berend has worked for some morally dubious people over the course of his career, to put it mildly, and he would want the same courtesy to be extended to him. What’s an assassin but a specialized mercenary, anyway?

He stands up. “Go,” he says. “Leave the city. I’ll not be so generous next time.”

The boy scrambles to his feet and runs, clutching the bloody stain on his chest. It’s deep, but he’ll live, as long as he doesn’t catch a fever. 

Berend considers staying to speak to the constables. Would they believe him if he told them who is after his head? Probably not. He ducks down a narrow alley and heads back toward the Temple District. Let the constables deal with the knives. 

What am I going to do now? 

It will take some time for Lord Edwan to realize his hired murderer has run and Berend is still alive. Berend has maybe a day or two before he’s in danger again; it’s not much of a window, but it will have to do. 

First things first: he has to find Isabel. She’s the only one he knows who might have a chance of defeating whatever spell is preventing him from moving through the West Gate. There’s something there, probably something of evil magic, and he’s not going to be able to figure it out on his own.

Besides, she’s his connection to the church of Ondir, and he would very much like to tell everyone from the high priest to the lowliest novice that the Belisia manor was recently haunted and why. 

Isabel was at the riot last night and hasn’t been seen since. Chances are she was arrested in the city center. They wouldn’t hold her for long—she’s an agent of the church, and it doesn’t take kindly to the interference of secular authority. He only hopes he hasn’t missed her. 

“Mr. Horst!”

Berend turns, his hand finding the hilt of his sword. He’s still jumpy. It is with deliberate effort that he relaxes his stance.

The person approaching him is a gangling young man in a sharp doublet and a well-ironed shirt, both simple in design but of high quality. The hard soles of his shoes tap a precise, even rhythm on the Temple District’s smooth pavement. 

He’s probably not an assassin. Probably.

Berend hides his clenched hands under his cloak. The young man must sense his unease, because he stops a couple paces away and holds out a folded piece of heavy paper like a peace offering.

“From the Lady Breckenridge, sir,” he says. 

The nervous staccato of Berend’s pulse eases slightly, and when he holds out a hand to accept the note, it doesn’t shake. Once he has it, the messenger gives a sharp bow and departs. 

With one glance around to see if anyone is watching, Berend opens the note. 

Our mutual acquaintance was eager to meet. The meeting is scheduled for eight o’clock tonight. Don’t be late. 

Then, after an inch of blank paper: I hope you’re well.

Berend doesn’t know how he is. It’s odd for Lady Breckenridge to be concerned, and to devote ink in an otherwise succinct letter to his state of being. They talk, certainly, but not of buried things, painful things, and Berend quite likes it that way. 

There isn’t time for him to dwell on it. The note has brought him another task to accomplish before Lord Belisia starts hunting him again: go to this meeting and see if he can learn anything about Warder and his device. 

He still needs to find Isabel. She has to see Warder’s device, though Berend hasn’t ruled out the possibility of bringing her to the Belisia estate to try to call up the girl’s ghost. 

Would it be worse, he can’t help but ask himself, if the spirit was like Mikhail? Or if she were gone, like Warder had promised, and Berend was back to having no idea what could do the impossible and damage a soul?

He almost doesn’t see Isabel when he passes by her at the edge of the city center. She’s carrying her hat and her coat, and her hair is disheveled, escaping from her braid in long strings. Her clothes are wrinkled and dusty. 

“Sentinel!” Berend calls out. 

She looks up. There are shadows under her eyes, so dark that he worries she’s been beaten, but it’s only tiredness. She acknowledges him with a nod. “Mr. Horst.”

She keeps walking, wrapping her coat around her shoulders. Berend jogs the few steps to catch up. 

“I’ve been looking for you all morning,” he says, which is almost the truth. He meant to be looking for her all morning. “Where are you going?”

Isabel stops, brushing hair from her eyes. “The temple of Ondir. I think I know how to find the murderer’s…lair, for lack of a better term. I need a cleric. Or several.”

“Did you just get out of jail?” Berend asks.

“Yes,” she replies. “Good day, Mr. Horst.”

He catches up with her again, placing a hand, briefly, on her elbow. “It’s the place I can’t walk to, isn’t it? I tried, but every time, I end up going somewhere else. There’s a spell on it, isn’t there?”

This gives her pause, and she halts her quick pace toward the Temple District and turns to him fully. “Yes, most likely,” she says. “A sort of mental sleight of hand. Easy enough, if one has the ability, and less prone to causing unwanted side effects than something like invisibility.”

“I’m going with you.”

She takes a breath and lets it out in an exhausted rush. “This man is working blood-magic on a scale that hasn’t been seen in decades, if not centuries,” she says through her teeth, as though that and not the relative emptiness of the street will prevent her from being heard. “I appreciate your willingness to help, but I need people trained in holy magic and blessed by the gods.”

Berend pulls his cloak aside to show his pistol. “I have your holy magic right here,” he says. “There’s not much a necromancer can do against a bullet in the head.”

She gives him a blank look. “I appreciate your willingness to help, but this isn’t your fight. You’re not trained for this.”

“Like hells it isn’t. Mikhail was a Son of Galaser. That might not mean anything to you, but it matters to me and it mattered to him. I’m going with you.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Horst. I promise I’m doing everything I can. You will just have to wait.” Isabel gives a slight bow and places her hat on her head, turning once again to walk to the temple. 

“It was Edwan Belisia’s house that was haunted,” Berend calls after her, heedless of who might hear. He realizes he’s probably making a mistake, but now he’s committed. “I can take you to the manor. I’ve also got another way to find out how Warder’s device works.” You need me, he doesn’t add. At least as much as I need you.

She’s quiet for a moment. “I suppose that’s useful to know, but I’m more concerned with finding this necromancer before he kills someone else.” Her face softens, and she says, “I’m sorry about your friend. Whatever has happened to him, if there is a way to undo it, I promise I will find it. It’s just going to have to wait a little while.”

Berend’s heart sinks. He may not have time to wait. “Look, get as many clerics as you want. Bring the whole bloody church if you have to. Just let me help.” 

I have to do this. He needs to be present, at least, when they find the man who killed Mikhail and cut him into pieces. If he can be the one to enact vengeance on him, all the better, but either way, he has to be there.

Isabel sighs again. “Come with me.”

Berend looks at her in surprise. “You’ve changed your mind?”

“No. I’m going to let the high priest talk you out of this nonsense. Come on.”

Back to Chapter Eighteen

Forward to Chapter Twenty

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Thank you for reading, and for your patience this week! I appreciate you.