Cameron Johnston - The Traitor God

As it turned out, Charra’s old premises were long-gone, burnt down and replaced by a creaking block of slum housing. A copper in a beggar’s bowl gained me the information that Charra was still very much alive, much to my relief. She had shifted her business all the way over to West Docklands, which was impressively upmarket for a brothel. The new Charra’s Place was as close to the luxury of the Crescent and the Old Town as such an establishment could get without the wardens and the Arcanum taking exception to such undesirables getting above their station.

It took a good half day to make my way west through the maze of narrow streets, and as I walked I gradually became aware that something was not right below the surface of the city. An atmosphere of fear and uncertainty pervaded the seemingly cheerful chats and greetings of friends and neighbours. It wasn’t what they said, it was what they didn’t. I witnessed an old woman ask how a carpenter’s sister was doing. He didn’t answer and just looked away, focusing on repairing a door. Her face paled and she didn’t enquire further. I eavesdropped on other conversations and asked people a few leading questions on my way, and it seemed a worrying number of people had gone missing over the last few months, especially those with a touch of magic in their blood. “The Skinner”, the same name daubed on the gatehouse wall, seemed to be on everybody’s lips; a deranged madman some said, while others called him a daemon from the Far Realms.

By the time I found the right area dusk had fallen and the great bell up in Old Town was tolling its last until dawn. A few travellers new to the city paused in the middle of the street to gawp up at the great houses and gothic spires as illusionary faerie flames flickered into life all along their walls and rooftops, painting them with hues of light that swirled through red, pink, green and blue at the artistic whims of the lords of the High Houses. It was beautiful, but I had seen it countless times and knew just how much gold the noble families wasted on maintaining such magical frivolities.

Charra’s new place of business was a large building of fine grey stone decorated with fluted columns and delicate ornamentation, all set within small but meticulously maintained gardens. Elunnai was almost full tonight, her tears diamond-bright and scattered across the sky. The silvery light lent an ethereal beauty to the garden as hundreds of delicate moonflowers rose from the earth, translucent buds blooming, petals glowing gently as they bathed in Elunnai’s radiance. It must have cost a fortune to build this small oasis of tranquility and for me it was far more magical than the illusionary artifice adorning the manses of the High Houses on the rock above.

Charra had gone up in the world.

Two bullish red-haired clansmen – twins, all looming muscle and whorling blue tattoos, short necks and bristling beards – stood flanking the main entrance. Their hairy arms crossed over leather vests as they watched my approach. I noted the wooden hilts of clubs peeking out from the square-sheared low hedges on either side of them. These two were as well-armed and armoured as the wardens would accept in the lower city. I could tell from a glance that they were seasoned warriors: the knife scars on the arms, the solid stance, the way their eyes sized me up. They had smashed more than a few heads in their time.

I wouldn’t have expected anything less from Charra; she had always boasted a good eye for talent. Hah, and if I knew Charra, then guarding this door wasn’t all the twins would be doing on a regular basis.

Neither of them looked impressed at the sight of me in my oversized patched clothing. I probably did look like some soft southern twat to them, more at home in the gutters than in a high class brothel. Still, I reckoned I knew just how to deal with Clansmen, being half of one myself.

Straightening up to try and look vaguely imposing, I sauntered over and stopped just out of arm’s reach, nodded to them. “How’s it goin’, pal? I’m here to see Charra.”

Both looked me up and down, well, mostly down. The one on the right sneered at me. “Oh aye?” he said, the scent of whisky on his breath. “And why would she want to see you then, wee man?”

The Clan tattoo running up the side of his neck identified him as hailing from one of the northeastern clans. I grinned up at him as the name came to me. “Have some respect, you little Clachan prick.”

He blinked, exchanged glances with his brother. That was the way to deal with clansmen – a bit of banter and a lot of front. I shook my head and tutted. “Why, I–”

His fist ploughed into my stomach, lifting me off my feet. Air whuffed from my mouth and I collapsed, shocked lungs refusing to suck in air, my belly a mass of pain like I’d been kicked by a horse. The bastards. They’d spent too long in Setharis, gone native; and as for me – I’d been too cocky.

Staggering over to the hedge, I doubled over and vomited all over the handle of his club, just to spite the prick.

“Ugh, you dirty wee bawbag!” he cried, hauling me round by the scruff of the neck. I gasped, struggling to speak as his other fist drew back to pound on my face, managing to force out a few words.

“The rabbits are fast here.”

His face screwed up in confusion. “Eh?”

“Purple snow?”

“What are–”

It was just enough to set his mind off-balance, enough confusion to make it easier to slip into his head. I wouldn’t get out of this in one piece without using a tiny bit of magic and I refused to allow the likes of them to get in my way. I opened my Gift, just a sliver. Skin contact made working magic so much safer and easier. I reached into his mind and rummaged his memories for the big fat bag of gold at the centre. It wasn’t difficult: a haze of alcohol-induced malleability overlaid his every thought.

Ah, there it was. Dirty bastard.

I made the hand clamped round the back of my neck spasm with pain like it had just been stabbed. He snatched his hand back, hissing. The iron band squeezing my chest eased off slightly. I clutched my throbbing stomach.

“I know your secrets, Nevin,” I sneered back at him, raising an eyebrow. “How was Fenella? Enjoy it, did you? Wet for you, was she?” I tutted again. “Wasn’t your brother here madly in love with her for years?”

Nevin’s face went pale. Both men’s eyes widened in horror. My arrow had struck home. Grant stared at him in disbelief. Which turned to rage.

“You lying cunt!” his twin snarled, launching himself at Nevin, meaty fist smashing into his brother’s face.

As the twins set to rolling about the ground beating the crap out of each other, I staggered over to the entrance and shouldered the heavy oaken door open. A tiny bell tinkled as I slipped inside and let it swing shut behind me.

Inside, the air in the reception hall was fragrant with exotic spices and expensive oils, the carpets and furnishings all in the best possible taste. I closed my eyes for a second and concentrated on blocking away the pain, telling my body that it belonged to somebody else. It receded to a dull ache.

A lady of sheets carrying a silver tray and cup sashayed down the hallway towards me, nipples almost visible beneath her silken halter, the slit on her long skirt revealing a glimpse of bronzed thigh. No toothless old whores with rotten breath here. And I was certainly no eunuch, that was entirely evident.

Her eyes took in my ill-fitting and now puke-stained clothes. Her brow creased.

I winked at her. “Ah, so good to be back!” I plucked at my baggy tunic. “Urgh, I really must arrange a better disguise next time. Is that wine, my sweet?” Not one to turn down free drink, and keen to wash the foul taste from my mouth, I snatched the cup from the tray and took a gulp before she could protest. It was far from my usual pig-swill. Not even a hint of vinegar. “Is your mistress at home this evening?”