14 - Violet

VIOLET

On the outside, I knew I seemed more like a ghost than a young woman, moving through Dawncastle. At least, that's how the people of the city of Cauldrontop treated me, whispering in fear and ducking away whenever I turned down an alley or entered a shop. On the inside, though, I didn't feel like a ghost. I felt like a student on assignment. I'd always been a good student, a disciplined student, and I had never had any trouble committing myself when exercises in chemistry or physics grew particularly difficult. Searching for traitors in a foreign land, I found, was much the same. It just took place on a city street instead of a sheet of exam paper.

It helped that I had Headmother Heprose leading the way. Most of the time, Josephine and I were merely instructed to walk behind her, keeping our eyes out for trouble. The headmother clearly had a plan, and she had done this before, though the details of her exact career were kept from me.

The Dawncastle Protectorate was far more north than Eastwall, but an atmospheric current kept it warmer and more humid than the frigid Wyldlands of Paxana to the east, across the Sea of Paxana. I had to take care in the laundering of my robes so they would not get mildewed after each wave of pouring rain.

On the third morning, it was not raining, only misting. The hills in the distance were bright green, but the buildings of Cauldrontop itself were all red and brown. Most of the streets were too narrow and uneven for automobiles, which was just as well, because we didn't have a car to drive in the first place. Everything Paxanan in Cauldrontop happened on foot.

That day, we had ventured northwest into an unfamiliar quarter of the old city. The Secret Police, who operated heavily in Cauldrontop to root out resistance, had told us that the quarter we were visiting was not so safe. They insisted on coming with us that day, for the sake of additional protection. I could tell the headmother thought it unnecessary, but she did not argue. She allowed the khaki-uniformed men to keep pace with the three of us in black as we strode through the alleys of a foreign land.

I was impressed by the physical discipline of the secret police. They were all fit young men, some of the lightsman caste and some lowborn, but they operated as one. Their uniforms were all starched and pressed with brimless khaki hats. They wore black holster pistols on their hips.

Clotheslines ran above our heads. Most of the buildings were three or four stories tall at least, dense with life. "This is the place," said the lead secret policeman, stopping at a storefront. He and the headmother had been having some discussion about a lead, and we were here to follow up.

I could not read the strange Dawncastler script, but I could tell from the contents of the building that the place was a chemical supply shop. The lead SP insisted on entering first. Immediately, he barked at the store clerk in that strange and incomprehensible tongue we call Dawncastler.

“Tit is te keima bulitchie! Bulchip shaan. Sheteu che handen omeuho,” he shouted at the man.

The clerk put his hands up, looking nervous. He was older, perhaps in his fifties or sixties, and like most Dawncastlers he seemed perpetually underfed. He wore a white plain shirt, not a gownrobe, like a peasant.

"Hold him still," said Headmother Heprose. She had been growing more and more severe each day that we did not find our suspects. At her word, the second and third SPs held the clerk in place behind the counter, pinning his arms.

"Ken bejit!" he said with fear and protest. "No possession! No possession!"

We'd heard this a few times since we'd arrived. The Dawncastlers seemed to know a bit about the deathsgate, and they knew that in some circumstances a deathsgate sorceress was capable of mind control, which they called possession. This act, it seemed, was said to profane the soul in the Dawncastler faith. They all were very eager to beg us not to put them in such circumstances.

"No possession," said Headmother Heprose, to reassure him. It was more of a courtesy than she offered most of our suspects. "Violet, read him. Lieutenant, go ahead."

Thankfully, I did not have to physically touch the clerk to see if he was lying. My senses were attuned enough that I could do it from a few feet of distance. I extended my hand, shutting my eyes, and I knew that Headmother Heprose was doing the same. She did not trust me enough to rely solely on my own appraisal of a suspect's honesty.

The head policeman, the lieutenant, began to speak in Paxanan-accented Dawncastler. “Chaen e onlaengsh maenen hieleeun kekoemun om aen kluute hoebuleid shtikstoppeulcheushol te koupen?” he asked.

"Ben, ben bulen," said the chemical clerk.

"Ken bulen," said the lieutenant, seeming to disagree. "Lelbelen. Idieleeun ti beultacht ish."

The chemical clerk seemed aggravated. “Cha, e ulalen tue maanen keletoen chonkemanen.”

I spoke without opening my eyes. "Whatever he's saying, I'm getting truth."

"That's my feeling as well," I heard the headmother say.

The lieutenant turned to us, and I heard his feet shift. It was amazing how much more attuned the sense of hearing became with one's eyes closed. "He's saying some young men bought chemical precursor two months ago."

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I felt the headmother move, and I took it she had opened her eyes. I kept mine shut. "Well," she said, "he can either point us to them, or we can get in his head and pull out their faces."

"Ken bejit! Ken bejit!" the chemical clerk shouted. It seemed his Paxanan was good enough to know that she was threatening to enter his consciousness.

The Headmother stamped her foot. "Shut him up and see if he knows the men who bought the bomb precursor."

“Meneul, alshuebliept—” the frantic clerk began. Then a skull-rattling blast cut through the echoey interior of the chemical shop. It was the sound of a firearm.

The clerk, still held by the policemen, slumped dead where he stood with a bleeding hole in the back of his skull. I had opened my eyes, jolting, and saw a young man in blue running away down the street from the open back door of the shop. He dropped a pistol in a wastebin as he ran. Because of where I stood, I had a straight shot to the back door, and without any hesitation I sprinted after him.

My black boots pounded the pavement as I charged. I'd always been a fast sprinter in school, which surprised people, given my stature. I suppose I just knew how to move my legs in a way that got the job done.

The man in blue was nimble, and he was much more familiar with the rhythm of Cauldrontop's chaotic street traffic than I was. I watched him dodge carts, pedestrians, and bicycles with ease. To my frustration, a group of women carrying baskets on their heads blocked my way. I skirted past them, gritting my teeth as I tore across a muddy intersection.

My hood had blown back from the wind, landing on my shoulders and exposing the black bob beneath. I'm sure I was quite a sight to these tan, brown-haired Dawncastlers. "Behind you," I said out loud, directing the words straight at the man with the power of the deathsgate in my tone. The thought traveled straight through the world beyond and into his head.

He turned around, compelled by ritual to hear me, and almost got hit by a passing truck. He stopped short just in time. I was gaining on him fast, and he knew it. Then he ran inside a nearby apartment with a multicolored facade.

Ten seconds later, I had reached the same building. I entered, finding myself in the living room of a commoner's dwelling. A little Dawncastler girl stood in the center, on a woven rug, staring up at me.

"Where'd he go?" I asked her, with the adrenaline pumping through my veins. I had forgotten she probably didn't know Paxanan.

The little girl stared at me blankly.

Furious and stressed, I thrust a hand at the girl and ripped the answer from her with the force of the deathsgate. "Where'd he go?!" I shouted.

The girl answered me in a compelled, fearful murmur and pointed to an open door. It led to a foodstuff storeroom.

Turning, with urgency again, I rushed inside. It was partially underground, lit only by a small, street-level concrete cutout on the far wall near the ceiling. If I had stopped to think, I would have known it was a dead end. I would have waited outside until the others caught up, so we could take on the fugitive together. Unfortunately, I had no such wisdom in my mind.

As I entered the storeroom, a rotten plank of wood smashed across my face, near breaking my nose. I coughed as I inhaled the mold and particles, stunned and bleeding. I didn't have time to reel, because the fugitive was on me. He lunged, gripping my neck and getting his thick, peasant hands entirely around it. I gasped, staring at his spotty face, which was far too close for comfort. I felt his thumbs pressing down on my arteries, blocking the blood, turning me woozy.

At this distance, I could see the Dawncastler fugitive was just a teenager. His face was contorted in a sneer, a gruesome expression that reminded me of those masks they carve on tropical islands. He was turning red from the exertion of trying to kill me. I knew with a few seconds' time he would crush my windpipe.

Desperate and pained, I grabbed the side of his head with an open palm and called for any deathsgate power I could find. When I did, a blast of cold wind blew through the storeroom, knocking bags of grain and tin cans against the inner wall. Blood, thick and opaque, poured with chunks from his mouth and nose. I knew at once that he was dead.

This was my last act of strength before near-unconsciousness overtook me. I stumbled and fell, unable to catch myself, and the body fell atop me. His hot red blood stained my white face and the black of my robes. It all smelled like copper and sweat.

Wheezing, I stared up at the ceiling and struggled to find cogent thought. A few seconds later, the headmother rushed in. "I got the face," I told her with a croak, and it was true. In the moment I had blasted the mind of the fugitive, I had seen the visage of the mysterious gentleman who had hired him to carry out the bombing of General Dell.

It didn't seem like the headmother had heard me. She looked at the fugitive, then at me, and kicked the corpse from my chest. "What a mess," she said at the scene. Then Josephine and the SP lieutenant entered, both winded.

I spoke again, trying my hardest to stay lucid. "I got the face of the Paxanan who hired him."

"Paxanan?" said Josephine.

I nodded. It had been a Paxanan. That I knew. "I can see it. But I'm losing it."

"Then I need to get it out of you now, before it's gone," said the Headmother. She raised up a hand, and I could see she was about to enter my mind.

I didn't want to end up as scrambled as the corpse that lay dead on the concrete. "Wait," I said in protest.

"This won't hurt if you stay calm, Violet," said the headmother. "I don't want to hurt you. Ground yourself with the spirits and you will survive."

I could tell she was going to do it. There was nothing I could do to stop her. Now the responsibility lay on me to find enough inner peace to not be fried like an egg. I shut my eyes, and I felt the headmother kneel over me. I felt her boot press against my side, where I was bruised. I felt her knee press between my pulsing legs. Her hand touched my face, and she breathed out.

Somehow, despite my eyes being shut, I knew what she was doing. She was reaching into me through the ether, seeing what I had seen in the mind of the now-dead man. With her free hand, she was using his blood to paint the mastermind’s face on the concrete.

After what felt like eternity, she removed her hand from my head, and I blinked twice. I had survived. My mind was still my own.

I sat up, feeling incredibly drained, and looked down at the man she had drawn from blood and brains. He was gaunt and eyepatched, with a thick mustache.

Just as I began to take it in, I saw Headmother Heprose collapse. "Sorceress?" asked the lieutenant, concerned.

"They’ll both be out for a little bit," said Josephine, referring to me and the headmother. For the moment, I was still conscious, but I felt myself fading quickly. In my last few lucid breaths, I watched Josephine and the SP lieutenant examine the drawing.

"It looks like we might have the culprit," said Josephine, soft-voiced.

"Could it be a mistake?" the lieutenant asked.

"The headmother doesn't make mistakes," said Josephine. "Have you seen that man?"

The lieutenant swallowed. My eyes shut as I fell into sleep, but still I could hear his shaky voice answer. "That's General Ravenridge." Then unconsciousness took me.