His brethren would be infiltrating Pavisse now, pushing in from twelve different directions, opening their ears and eyes, trying to find any trace of Baburn or his uncle. He felt his sword hanging light at his belt, waiting to be fed and gorged again. He hoped that he would be the one to find the boy.
Lucien sniffed, but there was no magic in the air.
He passed by an old machine, a hollow oval the size of a man, whose use could only be guessed at. It had been incorporated into a building, framing the main doorway with its textured and ridged surface. There were stumps of hardened veins protruding from its top edge. As ever, Lucien was amazed at how casually people treated miracles. If this thing suddenly came to life it would scare most people to death. Perhaps it was a hole-maker, punching shafts into the ground a mile deep with energies gathered in its hollow center. Or maybe it was a break-healer, raising and lowering itself around a wounded body and knitting bones, patching torn flesh. Whatever, now it was a doorway into a whorehouse. Its ancient and inexplicable use granted it no favors. Lucien’s hatred of magic was fed by what humankind had tried to achieve with it. The Mages had been the worst by far, yes, but all people were like that at heart. Those two had simply had the face to forcefully seek what they desired.
“That’s a Red Monk!” he heard someone whisper behind him, and he did not turn around. It had been the grizzled old coal miner lounging in a chair outside the whorehouse; Lucien had heard him cough as he approached, and now he knew his voice as he whispered again. “Mean bastards, they are!” Whoever the old man was trying to impress did not reply.
He came to a tavern, peopled mainly with drunken militia being tattooed by a harem of Cantrass Angels. Approaching the bar, Lucien heard the scrape of metal on stone behind him. He turned slowly and peered out from within his robe’s hood, spotting the militiaman who had moved. A Cantrass Angel was scoring a Ventgoria Dragon into his leg, substituting its customary steamy breath with a mythological burst of fire. The man’s eyes were unfocused and bloodshot with alcohol, and he looked away immediately, slipping back into his chair.
Lucien turned to the barman, alert to any possible movement behind him, and asked his question. “I’m looking for Vance Baburn to conclude a business deal.”
“Never heard of him,” the barman said, and he was telling the truth. Lucien could see the sparkle of fear in his eyes; perhaps he thought these drunken and stoned militia could help him, should the need arise.
Lucien turned away and left the tavern, hearing blustery mutterings behind him as the men revealed how they could have taken him, had they so wished.
The streets were becoming busier the farther into Pavisse he went. More impromptu street markets had sprung up, and their sellers seemed to be doing brisk trade, the produce richer and fresher than that sold on the outskirts. The traders nearer the river had their choice of the fresh wares, while those dealing on the outskirts probably brought their own produce in overland.
Every doorway could hide Baburn. Every alley, darkened as they were with wet clothes strung high up between buildings, could be the place where this could end. Maybe the boy had not even found his uncle and was hiding in the streets, sheltering in an empty house or trying to find work at the small docks. In a town of tens of thousands, finding him would not be an easy task, however aware or unaware he may be of his burgeoning powers. Time was not on the Red Monks’ side, and Lucien knew this only too well. He would not sleep. He would not stop looking or questioning, and if needs must, he would move past questioning, start using some more direct methods of interrogation. Someone here knew of Vance Baburn.
He paused in front of another tavern, rested his hand on the hilt of his sword and went inside.
IN THE END, Vance Baburn came to Lucien.
“I’ve been looking for you!” a voice hissed behind the Monk.
Lucien had strayed from the main streets and found an area of holding pens for sheebok, goats and a couple of chained and spiked tumblers. The cages were heavy and thick, and he wondered just what else they had been designed to hold. The air stank of stale shit. There were a few people milling around-feeding the animals, clearing out stalls, nervously teasing the tumblers-but not many. Lucien had asked his question and was about to leave when he felt the point of a knife in his back, heard the whisper in his ear.
“You’re not hard to find, you know. Dressed like you are. Like blood-colored shit.”
“I’ve been looking for you too,” Lucien said. The knife was pressed harder into his back and he felt the skin part, the cool metal sliding half a finger-length into his flesh. It did not hurt straightaway, but it stirred his blood. He felt his face flushing with rage, the sword twitching at his belt, and yet he did not turn around. He knew that he could use this movement to his advantage; he simply had to reign in his fury for a few heartbeats more.
“Where’s the boy?” the voice hissed.
“I don’t know, I’m looking for him myself.”
“What have you done to him? Killed him like you killed my brother and his wife? Butcher! What possible reason-”
“That was one of my brethren,” Lucien said, “and he did it-”
“I don’t care for your reasons! If you’re in with that murderer, I should kill you right here.”
“You can try,” Lucien said, and there was a pause. They stood there like that for a long moment, Vance Baburn holding the knife piercing the Red Monk, Lucien facing away from the man he sought, trying to control his rage, telling himself again and again that he needed this man alive, needed to question him, find out where the boy had gone. After a sufficient pause he made his move. “Or we can go to your home,” he said, “and talk about this sensibly.”
“I won’t talk sense with a madman,” Vance hissed.
“We’re not all mad. Some of us are more obsessed than others. Like mad old Carfallo who found your nephew’s village.”
“He didn’t find it, he slaughtered it.”
“He killed some there, I admit, and for that I offer no apologies. But not all of them. A few militia, and some men who attacked him. Rafe-your nephew-escaped before Carfallo could kill him.”
“You admit you want to kill him? Why? And what makes you think I can’t push harder now, cut those words right out of your putrid body?”
“He’s a danger to everything!” Lucian said, trying to rein in his anger.
“He’s just a farm boy, what danger could that be? And he said the whole village was dead.”
“A young farm boy’s exaggeration. I’ll not lie to you, Vance Baburn, I do seek to kill him. But I can make it easier on you, and your nephew. And easier on the people of Pavisse. Because we know he’s here somewhere, and I’m not the only Monk searching these streets.”
“Then we’ll slaughter you all! I’ll start with you right now, and the militia will clean up the rest of you like rats’ bodies rotting in the streets!”
“Militia like those I just saw being tattooed by Cantrass Angels?”
“They’re not all like that,” Vance said, but the desperation in his voice was obvious. He pushed a little more. The knife sank deeper, and Lucien tensed, slipping the sword from his belt. The moment hung like that, ready to go either way. Lucien’s instinctive rage could take full control, flushing him with the bloodlust and madness, spinning him around and slicing this man in two. Then he would slaughter those who watched; he sensed them hiding, terrified and fascinated. Or the men would part and go to Vance’s home, and maybe Lucien would find what he sought.
“You can’t kill me like that,” Lucien said quietly, leaning back so that the knife penetrated even deeper. He heard Vance gasp as thick red blood gushed over his hand. “See? Nothing.”