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Content warning: brief sexuality, images of child death and body horror.
Chapter 16
It doesn’t go back inside the manor. Instead, it calls in a voice loud enough to echo, “Tell your masters I’ll bring the contract to them in two days.”
There is no reply; no movement. It puts the lamp down in the yard, snuffs it and, in darkness, leaves House Kilcharni for the streets. Halfway to the dock it realizes its dress, shirt and jacket are filthy with dust and soot, and red rust covers it fingers and palms. It contemplates going back, but the thought of the child’s ghost staring at it with such hope and longing makes it shudder. So it wipes its hands on the skirt and keeps walking. It spots the rower who took it to the islands before, and steps onto his boat.
“To the university, please,” it says, dropping a sinet into the boatman’s outstretched hand. The man’s eyes widen—the coin is far more than the trip is worth—but he nods and reaches for his oars. It sits on the rear seat and stares into the darkness. The river’s ghosts are pale outlines beneath the water’s surface, and it doesn’t want to see them.
When it looks back at the dock and sees the flayed child mouthing, “Can I go now?”
It closes its eyes, puts its elbows on its knees and drops its head into its hands.
The river has its own sound; a quiet rushing as it pushes against the prow of the boat. The boatman’s oars dip and pull and rise with rhythmic splashes, and his breathing matches them. Together, they build an almost hypnotic soundscape; a bastion of calm to hide in, at least for a while. It stays still and listens until the oars rhythm changes.
Sitting up hurts, which tells it the clohalc has worn off again. It reaches in its purse for more and realizes it hadn’t refilled its supply. Fuck. It forgot the first rule or stimulants: you think they make you stronger, but all they do is keep you from realizing how stupid you’re being.
Nothing to do about it now. It scans the dock, looking for Deaths. It sees none, and hopes that they haven’t followed it, or are at least far enough behind that it doesn’t have to worry. Once the boat pulls up, it steps onto shore and picks a random street to walk down. It changes directions four times, then stops in a doorway to wait. After two hundred breaths, it moves again; new directions, new streets and a different doorway. Twice more it does this, but cannot detect anyone following it. Finally, it heads for the university and reaches Learning House Martyr Pelinol’s iron gates.
They are shut and locked, and the door-warden, sitting in his booth inside, is alert and awake. It could climb over, but then it would have to explain itself or kill the man. Instead, it circles the building, examining it. The walls have only a few slits in the stone, too thin to get through, but the towers have windows at the top. It finds the darkest corner between a tower and the wall and examines the stone and mortar. When it is sure, it takes off its sandals and puts them in its bag, then ties up its skirt. It reaches up, fingers finding cracks big enough for it to gain purchase, and starts climbing. Every sore muscle in its body complains. Its bruises hurt when they touch the stone, and its scrapes stretch and pull. By the second story, its arms and legs tremble and it wonders if it is too tired to do this.
On the third story, its foot slips.
It gasps and presses flat against the stone, fingers digging into the cracks as if they could drill deeper into it with flesh alone. It forces its breathing even and searches for a new hold. When its toes slip into a crack, it sighs in relief and starts up again. Its progress is slower than before. Finger-hold by finger-hold, toe-hold by toe-hold it goes up, until it is above the Learning House’s roof. With slow movements, it transfers its weight to the tiles. Three steps get it away from the roof’s edge and it sinks to its hands and knees. It wants just to lie there, to give in to its exhaustion, but knows there is no time.
I can rest after I find him.
It raises its head and looks at the tower. The windows are four feet off the roof, and wide enough to fit through. It crawls inside and sits, listening. After a hundred breaths of hearing nothing, it stands up and heads down, moving slowly to keep the wooden stairs from squeaking. On the third floor, it stays near the wall, not touching it for fear of leaving soot marks, and makes its way to the building’s east quarter. The slits in the walls on either end of the hallway give almost no light, but yellow lamplight spills from under a few of the doors. In the semi-darkness, it sees wooden plates hanging by each doorway. It creeps from one to the next, using its fingertips to read the carvings. The sixth time, it traces Micka Gebraltin’s name.
Light shines beneath his door.
It tries the handle, finds it locked. With as gentle a tap as possible, worried any sound will draw unwanted attention, it knocks. It waits, hears nothing from within the room, and knocks louder, wincing at the noise. A chair scrapes against the floor and footsteps come closer. It steps to the side. The door opens, and Micka stares into the empty hallway, frowning in confusion.
Which gives it just enough time to charge.
One hand goes over Micka’s mouth, the other on the back of his head to keep him from breaking away. A leg behind his and a push of its body takes his balance. It keeps a tight grip so it can lower him to the floor, then straddles him. Micka’s eyes go wide as he realizes who it is, and he tries to speak. It presses harder against his lips, closes the door with its foot and pushes on it until the latch clicks into place.
“Mmmm!” Micka’s hands come up, trying to push its hand away. “Mmm mmm mmmmm!”
“Shhhh,” it hisses, and shifts its weight, pressing its chest to his and pinning him to the floor. It whispers, “Micka, you can’t make any loud noise, all right?”
He glares, but nods. It waits a moment longer, then takes its hand from his mouth. He pulls in a breath, and his words come out in a harsh whisper. “What are you doing here? You’re not allowed to be here at night!”
It keeps its body pressed against his. “I need help, Micka.”
“How did you get here?” he demands. “The warden wouldn’t let you in.”
“I climbed the wall.” It smiles at the disbelief on his face and points. “That’s why I’m not wearing shoes.”
He twists his neck to look at its dirty bare feet and shakes his head, denying what he sees. “The wall’s four stories tall. No one can climb that.”
It sighs. “If you say so.”
Micka’s gaze go from its feet to its bare legs, then to its body, pressing hard against his own. His face reddens. It wonders why until it feels something shift where their hips meet. Micka looks away, and his voice is higher when he says, “You didn’t come over this afternoon.”
“I’m sorry.”
Micka still doesn’t look at it. When he speaks, he sounds like he’s trying to distract himself more than anything else. “I spent all morning in the library. I found the book with the flower weapons and traced the drawing and wrote out the instructions so I could show them to you.”
“You did?” A faint hope sparks inside it. It sits up, its groin pressing on the reason for his discomfort. “Can I see them?”
Micka’s voice rises higher. “Get off me, please.”
It slips off him, taking only the quickest of glances at the rise in his trousers. Micka slides back, and shifts to sit cross-legged, pulling his shirt over the evidence of his arousal. Guessing what Silinie told it about Relleen was accurate across all men, it looks away from him and examines his room while he tries to calm his flesh.
The place is surprisingly large. There’s a table and two chairs which it just missed smacking Micka’s head against when it tripped him. Behind them, the room’s hooded iron brazier waits for the colder days to come. A single bed lies against the wall, a chest at its foot. There’s a small vanity with a jug and bowl for morning ablutions, and a writing desk and stool beneath the window that looks over the inner courtyard. The rug under them feels thicker than the one it sleeps on. In the light of the lamp on the desk, the room looks warm and welcoming.
It wonders what House Macki is from, to have enough money for this place.
“Why didn’t you come today?” Micka asks, pulling its attention back to him. “Did your uncle tell your parents?”
“He’s not—” It stops before it says the truth and searches for a different excuse. But all it can manage is, “No. Something happened and I couldn’t. But I’m here now.”
“In the middle of the night, which could get me expelled. Why?” It’s a demand, not a question. “You show up at the drinking house, you ask us about demons, you put Letvino into the infirmary—”
It almost says “sorry,” but it isn’t and Micka doesn’t slow down to give it a chance.
“—You don’t come when you say you will and then you sneak in late at night.” He stops, stares at its clothes for the first time. “And you’re filthy.”
It looks, and winces. The climb up the wall didn’t improve its clothing, and now it looks like a street urchin that’s been rolling in an ash pile. “I’m sorry. I should have changed.”
Micka shakes his head. “What is happening, Metilia?”
That isn’t my name. It’s surprised how much it wants to say the words, but knows that doing so will only make things worse. Micka stares at it, angry and confused and waiting for an answer. So it pulls its shoulder bag around, takes out the leather cylinder and offers it to him. “This.”
Curiosity overcomes his petulance, and Micka accepts the case. He undoes it and pulls the contract out. The flayed child appears beside him, whispering, “Can I go now?”
“What sort of material is this?” Micka asks. He raises his head, and its expression must have been terrible, because he pales and looks behind him, “What is it? What’s the matter?”
It stares at the child’s scared, sad face and feels weary beyond imagining. “It’s human skin, Micka. And the child it belongs to is standing beside you.”
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