Beneath Ceaseless Skies #182 Read online

  Issue #182 • Sept. 17, 2015

  “Murder Goes Hungry,” by Margaret Ronald

  “Flying the Coop,” by Jack Nicholls

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  http://beneath-ceaseless-skies.com/

  MURDER GOES HUNGRY

  by Margaret Ronald

  The trouble at St. Thecla’s began shortly after I visited my old division-mate Halliwell, or so the official record states. My friend Mieni, who is a good deal more perceptive than I and certainly more so than the recordkeepers of the Quarter, would say that it began months prior. A draugar would say that it had always begun, had never begun, and would never reach an end, but draugar are noted for their poor grasp of time.

  I have long acquaintance with the staff of St. Thecla’s and so did not have to enter via the relic-cluttered main lobby but could instead go straight to the new veterans’ wing. The wing had only just begun construction when I had been in hospital, but time and attrition had eased some of the need for it, and now the space seemed cavernous to me.

  It did not to Halliwell. “It’s a cell,” he complained, slumping in the armchair by the window. “A prison. Same faces every damn day. I’d almost prefer it if we were crammed in like sardines; I wouldn’t get all these pitying looks when I complain. Yes, that look,” he added, and I did my best to change my expression. “Exactly that. Don’t you tell me I’m overreacting, Swifty.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” I said. “Never did in the div, did I?”

  Halliwell glanced sharply at me, then slumped further. “No,” he admitted. “No, you didn’t.” The light picked out the lines of his face, shadows under his eyes and hollows in his cheeks. With his dark hair swept back, it gave his once-rakish appearance a more spectral cast than the one he’d used to such good effect on most of the farmers’ daughters the year we went off to war.

  Still, were he not confined to St. Thecla’s, I suspected he could cut a swath in the City. Those who could re-integrate into society were much celebrated, and Halliwell was good at that. Many of us were less skilled at hiding the strange scars left by a war in which most of our opponents, and half our allies, were entities that could only be described as magical.

  It seemed a shame that Halliwell, who was in the habit of ignoring matters he no longer deemed relevant—like the aforementioned farmers’ daughters—should be stuck with an effect that lingered so. “Sorry, Swifty,” he said. “It’s just—the new treatment failed, and I’m stuck here with the likes of Parker.”

  He gestured to a balding, broad-shouldered man completing a crossword at the far table, who called an expletive to Halliwell without looking up. The sister attending him gave him a reproachful look, then glanced over her shoulder at Halliwell and grinned.

  “New treatment?” I asked.

  “Didn’t want to mention it. Not after it crashed pretty spectacularly.” He held up his hands: his nails were bitten down to stubs and past, one or two practically torn off. “It’s all right,” he said as I drew a sharp breath. “The fingers themselves are safe; it’s just the nails. Technically fingernails are dead tissue, so I guess I was still making that much of a distinction.”

  “Judas, Halliwell. I can’t even imagine.”

  “Well, you never did have much of an imagination.” He put one hand over his face. “Damn me, Swifty, I didn’t mean that. Maybe you’d better come by another time; I’m in a royally bad mood.”

  I was somewhat familiar with Halliwell’s moods, and I could well believe that this sort of inaction grated on him. He’d always been happiest with something to brag about; without conquests of one sort or another, he got twitchy. “Should I bring you mittens, then?” I said finally.

  Halliwell jerked upright as if to challenge me, then relaxed, chuckling. “Couldn’t hurt. Couldn’t hurt at all. Maybe some of those little knitted ones that the, what was it, the Concerned Mothers used to send to the front? Remember how useless those were?”

  “Useless to you. I kept my No. 5s in them. Turns out pink wool with a duck pattern keeps powder nicely dry until impact.”

  “Judas, I bet that surprised a few spooks. All of a sudden a pink duck lands in the middle of them, and they’ve got enough time to say ‘what’ before it explodes.” He chuckled, but any mirth faded quickly. “Seriously, Swifty, I can’t take it here. I might be all right, if it weren’t for them.”

  He pointed past me, and I turned to look—and shivered. Not all veterans were human, and St. Thecla’s, unlike most other City establishments, had from the beginning opened their doors to all. At the far end of the ward, far from the desiccating sunlight, two draugar whispered damply to each other. Their hair hung in long, weed-festooned coils, and their faces were paler and more hollow than even Halliwell’s. They looked like what they had been named for: the spirits of drowned warriors, and even though I knew these were living beings, still they gave me a chill.

  “It’s a big ward,” I said at last, turning my chair to face Halliwell more fully. “And you don’t have to talk to them.”

  “Talking’s not the issue. Although—hey, drownie! Tell me, is this gonna kill me?”

  One of the draugar turned to face him. “You are already dead,” he whispered, in that loud, bone-wrapping whisper that is the draugars’ usual speech. “You have always been dead.”

  “See? How am I supposed to get better with them telling me I’m already dead?” He sank back and raised one shaky hand. “I tell you, Swifty—” he began, and swallowed.

  I didn’t like that swallow, nor the little, hungry cough he gave. “Sister?” I called.

  “Coming,” she called back, bustling over.

  Halliwell ignored us both. “I tell you,” he repeated, “if that lot has to be in here with decent people, then I might as well off myself, because damned if I’m going to listen—” The tremors intensified, and he turned his hand over, staring at the stubs of nails.

  “Sister—”

  “Right here.” The sister pulled Halliwell’s hand away from his face and pressed a hunk of bread into his palm. “Here you are, Mr. Halliwell, bread and salt as usual.”

  Halliwell said something that could have been an imprecation against all bread and salt, but it was hard to tell as he crammed the bread into his mouth and followed it with a fistful of salt.

  I looked away, obscurely ashamed of seeing him like this. The trouble with fighting a war in a magical land—as Poma-mel had been and was now—is that even the land can be turned into a weapon. In the last days of the war, streams turned to blood as we tried to drink, trees pelted us with unripe fruit, and even the morning mist turned to poison. But worst of all was the hungry grass, patches of which would instill a hideous hunger in any who crossed them. I had seen my fellows choke themselves trying to eat their own kit, pull up handfuls of dirt and shovel them into their mouths, starve as they chewed on stones. The one mercy was that people afflicted by the hungry grass did not see living flesh as food, or else our casualties would have doubled. Our Ageless commanders could provide a treatment, but not a cure.

  This was why Halliwell could not leave. He could only survive so long as every three hours he had his bread and salt, but to stray from that by even a minute would mean the hunger would sink claws into him once more. At St. Thecla’s they could provide that around the clock; where else would that be possible?

  Halliwell’s breathing slowed, and I looked back just as he licked the last of the salt from the back of his hand and smiled at the sister. “Of course, there are some nice bits about being here,” he said, his voice considerably more controlled. “Sister Brontia here is my saving angel, aren’t you?”

  “Oh, hus
h,” said Sister Brontia with a blush.

  Halliwell gave one of those satisfied grins that reminded me why we were less friends than division-mates.

  “Where’s Callie?” I asked to chase away that cat-with-the-cream expression. “Sister Caliga, I mean. I thought she had charge of this ward.”

  “That wisp of a thing? She’s moved up in the world - now she’s in charge of the whole wing.” Halliwell leaned back, but not before both of us noticed how Sister Brontia stiffened at him discussing another woman. Halliwell looked smug and waited till Sister Brontia had moved on to Parker. “Works fine by me, frankly. She always was a bit of a cold fish.”

  Only Halliwell could call Caliga that. I let it slide. “Which gives you more of a free hand with Brontia.”

  “If you can call it that.” He sighed. “You see what I’m good for these days, Swifty. Charming nurses. Maybe I’ll have enough spark for a game of cards next time, if you bring the cards. Parker shredded the deck after our last game.” He glanced over at the big man. “He’s a bit of a sore loser,” he added, raising his voice.

  Parker turned and got to his feet, heavy brows lowering. Sister Brontia scurried in front of him, speaking quietly, and he sat back down with a sound very like a growl. Halliwell grinned wickedly and drew breath again.

  “I’ll bring cards,” I said to distract him. He waved me away, but the moment—and the fun of needling Parker—had passed.

  The hospital’s layout had changed considerably since my own time there, and I’m embarrassed to say that I got thoroughly lost on my way out. It wasn’t until I heard a glad cry behind me that I had any sense of where I was.

  “Mr. Swift!” Mieni waved to me from the end of the hall, trotting up on legs much shorter than mine. “I am so glad to see you, if puzzled why you have come! What brings you to maternity?”

  “A poor sense of direction,” I said and bowed to her. “I take it congratulations are in order?”

  “Indeed, Mr. Swift, indeed! My youngest granddaughter has just had her third child!” She gestured back down the hall, and indeed I could hear the faint cheeps of newborns, human and koboldim alike. “Truly,” she went on, her voice dropping, “it was a harrowing time. But she is out of danger now, thanks to this good Saint Thecla and her sisters.”

  “Was it bad?” I glanced down at Mieni. While her navy dress was as neat as ever, the white tufts of koboldim hair over her eyebrows and ears were stringy with the remnants of sweat, and the long nails of her brick-red hands were worn down at the ends—not from biting, but from repeated clicking against something hard, a gesture that Mieni had when she was truly nervous.

  “Yes, Mr. Swift.” She let out a long breath and smiled up at me, fangs bared in exhaustion. “It was very bad, but I am happy to say all is well. Human medicine is excellent, though, much beyond what we could conjure even in our home.”

  I thought of Halliwell, hollow-eyed and hungry by the window. “Some things it can’t help,” I murmured.

  “No?” She peered closely at me, then nodded. “No, indeed. Still. Let us celebrate what it can, and celebrate another great-grandchild. I have blackberry wine to raise; you will drink a glass with me, yes?”

  “Certainly, Mieni.” I let her lead me away, trying to put aside thoughts of Halliwell.

  * * *

  Mieni’s blackberry wine meant that I did briefly forget about Halliwell, as well as anything else. The next day I had to send a sparrow to the Quarter pleading illness just so I could put my head back together. I did use the time to pack up a bag of playing cards and books the next afternoon, though I knew Halliwell would probably scorn the latter.

  The next morning—two mornings after my visit to Halliwell—I’d only just arrived at the Quarter when a sparrow found me, its brass feathers green with age. I’d only had time to note the St. Thecla’s insignia stamped on its underside before it began to chirp its message.

  “Mr. Swift, please! This is Sister Brontia, and she’s saying he killed him—please, you’ve got to make her believe me, Mr. Halliwell didn’t kill any—” The words cut off; Brontia must have been unused to sending message by sparrow, or she would have been more careful with her time. I picked up my coat again and hurried out.

  Only someone who had spent a good deal of time in St. Thecla’s would have noticed the change at the veterans’ wing: the bustle and traffic was much the same as before, but there was a certain silence that hung over it, like heavy clouds over the fields of Poma-mel. A woman in white stood at the closed doors of the wing, as I approached, as if guarding them, but her martial stance relaxed as I got closer. “Arthur. Oh, I’m glad it’s you.”

  “Hello, Callie.” I bent a little to take Sister Caliga’s hand. The scarring down one side of her face—the result of a vicious case of witch-pox in her youth—gave all of her admittedly rare smiles a twisted, wry look that probably contributed to Halliwell’s opinion of her as a cold fish. But I was fortunate enough to know better. “What’s happened?”

  She pulled back a little, the smile evaporating. “The Quarter didn’t brief you?”

  “The Quarter didn’t send me. I got a sparrow from Sister Brontia.” I opened my hand to reveal the tarnished brass bird.

  “Brontia. Of course.” She sighed, then took half a step back so that she could look up into my face more fully. “I really shouldn’t... but I’d much rather have someone who knows St. Thecla’s on this, rather than some blundering Patrol.”

  “Well, you have that so long as I’m here, Callie,” I said. “But I’m not even sure what’s happened; her message wasn’t exactly clear.”

  “One of our veterans is dead,” she said, unlocking the doors and letting us in. “I think half the reason Brontia is so upset is Halliwell himself,” she went on, leading me up the stairs to the ward I’d visited only days before. “If he could just explain—”

  “Why can’t he? And who is dead? Callie, I didn’t get much of anything from the message.”

  “Bane-of-Five-Shouts,” she said, then seeing my expression, clarified. “One of our draugar veterans. He was—well, I found him this morning.”

  We’d reached a small treatment room at the end of Halliwell’s ward, and Caliga paused to unlock the door for me. “I’m not sure I see what this has to do with Halliwell,” I said.

  Caliga didn’t answer. Instead she turned back the sheet from the dead draugar. The hollow, gray face was untouched and only a little less animated than when I’d seen it before. This was the one who’d told Halliwell that he had always been dead. The hair lay in heavy, drying coils, weeds already drying up and cracking, but that wasn’t the most obvious sign of death. That was the torn throat, the mutilated arms, all with chunks of flesh torn off—bitten off, as if by an animal.

  “Oh,” I said, or tried to. Instead I sat down heavily, staring at the bites, remembering Halliwell’s hands.

  “You see our problem,” Callie said quietly. “Arthur—I don’t have any right to ask this, but if you could do anything with the Quarter—”

  “You contacted them already?”

  “I sent a sparrow to the Quarter, and got back a response that they’d send an Inspector at fifth bell.”

  “That gives us one bell before they arrive.” I swallowed and got to my feet. “Callie, I’m sorry. I can’t—can’t be objective about this. But I know someone who can.”

  * * *

  Caliga’s directions took me to the nursery of the maternity wing, filled with little baskets holding pink and brown bundles sleeping or squalling, plus the occasional flame-red bundle of a kobold baby no bigger than my hand yet no less loud than the others. I scanned the room and spotted Mieni on a bench by the far wall, determinedly trying to read.

  She glanced up. “Ah, Mr. Swift! You are not back for more blackberry wine, are you?”

  I couldn’t quite repress a shudder. “No. But I wonder if you have time to come with me, though. There’s been a death in the veterans’ wing.”

  Mieni hopped up from the bench, l
eaving the book face down. “An excuse! I will gladly go with you.”

  “Are you sure?” I said, but she was already moving and I had to hurry to catch up with her. “I mean—your granddaughter, your great-grandchild—”

  “They are fine, and will be fine. Besides, Mr. Swift, when it comes down to it I am not overly fond of babies.”

  I stopped short, my feet skidding a little on the tile, and again had to catch up. “But you have—what, four children?”

  “Six! But all were much more interesting once they could talk. As I expect this one will be.” She grinned at me, and I shook my head.

  I explained the circumstances as we walked, and Mieni nodded along. “This sór Brontia—she and Halliwell had an understanding?”

  “I doubt it, knowing Halliwell.”

  Mieni cast a sidelong glance at me as she heard my tone. “I had not taken you for a prude, Mr. Swift.”

  “It’s not—” I sighed as we reached the doors of the veterans’ wing. “It was a cruel thing for him to do. She has her vows, and too many of us veterans are too scarred to be any sort of decent companion.”

  Mieni hummed. “It seems he did not think so.”

  Before I could answer, she pushed open the doors. Caliga was waiting on the far side. “Ah, sór Caliga! My friend Mr. Swift has mentioned you before—it is good to see you in the flesh, if in poor circumstances. Come; show me what I need to see.” Caliga looked at me over Mieni’s head, but I nodded, and she led on.

  Even Mieni seemed taken aback by the sight of the dead draugar. At last she shook herself, ears rattling, and trotted up to the body. She raised one gnawed hand, avoiding the spots where bone could be seen, and let it drop again. “Sang,” she murmured. “Blood, Mr. Swift, around the bites. Where is Mr. Halliwell?”

  “We can’t seem to wake him,” Caliga said. “And we have—well—I ordered him strapped down.”

  “There may be no need. Draugar flesh has certain effects on koboldim—do not ask how I know this, please—and if it may be the same for humans, he will not wake for some time. Hence why any of Bane-of-Five-Shouts remains undevoured.” She sniffed gingerly at the wounds, then gestured to me. “Mr. Swift, your hand, please.”