THE QUESTERS, PART VII
As the sun edged over the horizon, Rose lifted us across the river and back to Nyack. We landed on a broad cobbled street that was above the shoreline, well beyond a seawall that was composed of jumbled stone blocks. The sea was not terribly high, but we could feel its spray. The neighborhood further inland consisted of walled properties that weren't very large. Two-story homes peeked over the walls. I was a part of Nyack that was prosperous, but not rich.
A pair of startled and curious Folk boys, clad in the denim garb of street-cleaners, carrying brooms and shovels and towing a wheeled trash-bin, were watching us.
"Where's the nearest Militia station?" I asked them.
The elder of the boys pointed inland. "About five streets that way, ma'am."
The Militia sergeant commanding the day-watch was a tall, red-headed, and rugged-looking Blood. He was obviously puzzled to see us, but he was cooperative.
"Honored Seeker, Nyack doesn't have vampires," he told me carefully. He was obviously trying his best to be polite.
We were in the large room that made up the bulk of the militia-station. Some holding cells lined the far wall and were filled with last night's drunks. They were a woe-begone lot, suffering from hangovers, and looking miserable because of it. There was a faded yellow line painted on the floor in front of the cells. Two Militia privates were dragging men and women from the cells one at a time and having them walk the length of the line. If the drunks were reasonably steady, they were set free. Otherwise, they went back into a cell and were given more time to recover.
What the Sergeant had told me was common knowledge, but coming from him it had a certain weight.
"How often do people simply disappear and are never seen again?" I asked.
A grim expression on this face, the Sergeant reached to a shelf behind the duty desk and pulled out a heavy black ledger. Then he put the book in front of me and flipped it open.
The neatly sketched face of a man in his twenties looked up at me. His name, description, home, and other pertinent information was scribed next to the drawing. A note said that he'd vanished six weeks ago after spending the night out carousing with some friends.
"One person per page," the Sergeant told me.
I flipped through the pages. One drawing after another flickered past.
It was a thick book.
"That's city-wide for last month," the Sergeant explained. "A family member or citizen in good standing has to report someone missing before we take official notice. After that, our searcher teams investigate. They consist of Blood trackers and Wilder psychics. They're good at their job, but even they can't find everyone. If they can't find someone who's missing, then they go into the black book."
"We keep seven years worth of these books stored in the main station. After seven years, the books are warehoused. After another seven years, they're destroyed. We can't keep them around forever."
I gestured at the book. "Once a person ends up in there, what are the chances that they'll be found?"
The Sergeant shrugged his shoulders. "It's rare, but it happens. Actually, we mostly use the book to identify bodies."
Then he sighed regretfully. "Sometimes it seems like that's the only way we get the people of the book back to their families."
"People disappear for a lot of reasons," he continued. "Some simply get tired of their lives and decide to start over somewhere else. Others come to a worse end. And the sea is always a good place to dispose of a body."
Rose spoke up. "We're looking for a certain kind of disappearance. People who are young, healthy, and probably Folk or perhaps low-powered Wilder. They'd have no reason to deliberately vanish."
"Folk matching your description make up much of the book," the Sergeant explained stonily. "The Folk are natural victims. I don't like to say that, but it's a fact."
"Slaver gangs?" Faye asked suddenly.
The Sergeant's eyes suddenly went cold and slightly predatory, but then he quickly blinked it away. As I'd said, the Sergeant was Blood, and the teachings of the Old One are clear and final on the subject of slavery. It might seem to some that if the Sergeant encountered slavers, then a clash existed between the words of the Old One and the Sergeant's duty to the Militia. Actually, there was no clash at all. I suspected the Sergeant felt the same way. I doubted if any slavers that the Sergeant and his men discovered actually made it into a cell. As the Sergeant himself had told us, the sea is a good place to dispose of bodies.
"Such gangs exist," the Sergeant said carefully. "We... suppress them, but there are always those willing to do such a deed. It's no question that some of the missing are taken by slavers."
"Are there any prisoners of that kind available for a conversation?" Rose asked dryly.
The Sergeant smiled pleasantly at Rose. "We're short at the moment. Perhaps another station?"
"You mentioned that you have hunters," I interjected. "Can I speak to some of them?"
The Sergeant nodded and turned his head. "SMIT! BECK! THE SEEKER WANTS TO TALK TO YOU!" he bellowed.
There was a moment of frozen silence. Then two blue-jacketed Militia quickly headed towards us. I had the distinct impression that giving the Sergeant exactly what he wanted was considered the wisest course of action in his station.
Smit was a skinny and over-active Blood. He was one of those people who was always at least partially in motion. Beck was a blocky Wilder woman who was in her later years. She had the two red stripes of a Militia corporal on her shoulder.
"No vampires, Lady Seeker," Smit said. He was fidgeting as he spoke. "We ain't got no vampires."
I nodded. "We don't think there are any vampires in the city," I explained. "But they might get victims from here."
Beck pursed her lips. "I suppose that's possible. Slavers and other gangs could have some strange customers. They might not even know who they're selling to."
"The three guys," Smit said suddenly. Then he gave Beck a strangely bright and eager look. "Maybe the three guys?"
Beck seemed to consider that. "Maybe..." she said slowly.
"Who are the three guys?" Faye asked. She beat Rose to it by just a second. Rose gave Faye a frustrated look.
"Not sure," Smit said as he shifted from one foot to another. "Not sure. They take people and those people are gone forever. Not even bodies washed ashore. Everyone says they're slavers or rapists, but the scent seems wrong to me. Just wrong."
"They work the seaward side of the island," Beck told me. She'd already made the decision that Faye and Rose weren't the people who the conversation was about. "About a dozen stations are keeping an eye out for them."
"Three guys! And before them, two guys! And before them, two guys and a girl!" Smit added eagerly.
Beck gave her partner a long look. For a moment, it seemed as if she was seeing something in Smit that worried her.
"What's that about?" Rose asked Beck helplessly. Smit was hard to follow.
Faye and Rose weren't sure how to react to Smit's half-crazed nature. They didn't know what he was and at the moment there was no polite way for me to tell them.
Who knew what the consequences would be?
Smit grinned and eagerly opened his mouth. Beck leaned over and put a hand over Smit's mouth. Smit subsided with a disappointed look in his eyes.
"Smit has a theory," Beck replied resignedly. "His theory is that there always seems to be a small gang of malefactors working the seaward side of the island. A gang operates for a few months, but then vanishes and is immediately replaced by a new gang."
Faye looked puzzled. "Malefactors?"
"Bad guys," Rose and I told her at the same time.
"Why don't they just say so?" Faye muttered mostly to herself.
Beck kept talking. "Most assume that the new gang just wipes out the old gang, but Smit thinks it's bigger than that. He thinks someone is deliberately switching things up - replacing one set of agents with another - to keep us unsure. But just about everyone thinks Smit is building a pattern from unrelated information."
Smit, with Beck's hand still over his mouth, nodded sadly.
"These groups - whether they're related or not - are slavers?" I asked.
Beck shook her head. "We think so. The victims disappear, but there are no ransom demands. Of course, there can be even worse things than slavers out there. But it's just as likely that they're small-time slavers, who eventually run into something they can't handle. Then they vanish."
Beck paused and absolutely did not glance at the Sergeant. He was on the other side of the room, sternly talking to a terrified-looking prisoner.
Faye and Smit both began snickering.
"Do you know of a place where your 'three guys' murdered somebody?" I asked Beck.
Faye and Smit went silent.
Beck nodded her head. "Three weeks ago," she said. "They snatched a kid, but the father got in the way. He took a sword through his chest."
"Take us there," I told her.
"I can't..." Beck began dismissively. Then our eyes met.
Whatever Beck had planned on saying next trailed off. And her eyes shifted away from mine.
"Yes, ma'am," she said, even though she was at least twenty years older than me.
The Old One was with me. And I wasn't making requests.
We had made the decision to be reasonably unobtrusive. I'd left my buckskin jacket, tooth-and-claw necklace, and staff at the station. Rose left her helmet and dark red-purple tunic. Faye didn't wear particularly distinctive clothing, so she didn't need to change anything.
Of course, Beck and Smit were in uniform, but I assumed we'd eventually part ways with them.
"Here," Beck told us.
We were on a cobbled shore, facing a distant breakwater made up of water-rounded stone, glass, and ceramic. The glass and ceramic were the remains of long-abandoned trash piles that had been broken apart and eroded by the sea into pebbles. Actually, the breakwater was quite colorful, and the water between the shore and the breakwater was fairly calm.
"The fishing here is good," Smit explained out of nowhere. "The fish like the shallow water. Happy fish are easy to catch."
Indeed, there were about a dozen locals trying their luck. Most had fishing poles, but two boys were using a net. Rose looked wistfully at the pair with the net. I'm sure that someday she'll return to the sea.
Beck continued the story. "A father and his boy were fishing after nightfall, using torches to attract the fish. According to witnesses, somebody attacked them..."
"Three guys!" Smit announced.
Beck glared at Smit. He subsided.
"In the struggle, the father was killed," Beck added formally. "The attackers left with the boy. An attempt was made to raise a hue and cry, but there weren't very many people around and nobody knew where the kidnappers had gone."
Beck looked at Smit.
"When we got here, I tracked them a mile down the beach," Smit said in a voice that suddenly sounded almost sane. "They got onto a small boat - from the grounding marks, it was probably a ten or twelve-foot rowboat. I couldn't track them after that. The boy was alive and struggling when they got to the boat."
"Where did the father die?" I asked.
Beck studied the beach. She seemed a bit uncertain.
Smit walked about ten yards up the beach and stopped. Then he stomped a foot.
"Here," he said with complete certainty.
Beck seemed to accept that. I saw no reason to doubt Smit.
"Do you know the father's name?" I asked Beck.
"William," Beck replied. "William of Potter's Point. His widow lives about a block inland from here. He was the neighborhood tinkerer."
"The boy's name?"
"Martin. Ten years old when he was lost. Average height for his age, dark hair and eyes, an oval-shaped birthmark on his lower back."
Faye and Rose were both obviously impressed by Beck's memory. It seemed to me that Beck and Smit brought complementary talents to their job.
"Don't let anyone disturb me," I said to the others as I sat cross-legged on the beach.
Then I closed my eyes.
"What now?" I heard Smit ask.
"Get comfortable," Rose replied. "The dead usually only talk after sundown."
Trying to find a particular dead person in a city as large as Nyack is a challenge. Most spirits usually pass on after they die. But over the centuries, the restless dead will accumulate. Some places seem to have a storm of ghosts swirling through them.
But this particular spirit had good reason to remain in the world of the living. And I knew his name.
Names have power. So do motives.
I sat unmoving on that beach as the long hours crawled past. Around me, shadows and whispers of spirits flickered past, all doing incomprehensible things for incomprehensible motives. They were the minor sort of spirit that could not fully manifest under the sun.
However, even though the sun was up, I could call for the spirit. Even though he couldn't manifest, his spirit might notice the call.
"William. William of Potter's Point," I whispered over and over. Like the men and boys around us on the beach, I was fishing. It's just that my sea was vaster than even the Lant ocean.
As I sensed the sun finally dip below the horizon, I could hear the amateur fishermen around me packing up and leaving.
I clapped my hands together three times. Sometimes, spirits need the noise of such an act.
"William, father of Martin, I would have words."
Then I opened my eyes. The beach was empty except for us. Distant lantern-light provided some illumination.
William was standing between me and the surf. He had a faded form, but I could make out a strong-looking face with dark hair. There wasn't much of him left - the afterlife was calling and he would soon vanish into the beyond. That meant the reason he'd had for staying in the mortal world was now gone. That could only mean one thing.
The others didn't react to the spirit's appearance. They couldn't see him, although I could sense Smit acting even edgier than usual. He knew something was happening.
"My son is dead," William told me quietly. He could, of course, sense that.
"I'm sorry," I said to him.
William put his hands over his face. The moan he let out seemed more like the wind than a sound that a person would make.
The others could somehow hear that. Or perhaps sense it. Rose cocked her head and carefully examined her surroundings. Faye shivered and put her arms around herself. Beck and Smit were suddenly holding hands - they both looked nervous.
There is a theory that spirits are not 'real' in the sense that they are an actual continuation of a once-living soul. Instead, they are said to be an imprint - a copy - made up of psychic energy, having no more reality than a shaft of sunlight or an ocean wave.
The people who say that have never felt a spirit mourn for a lost child.
"I tried to save him," William sobbed. "I never considered myself to be a brave man, but I fought to save my boy."
"I know," I told him.
"The tall one had a short-sword under his cloak. He put it through me. I died choking my son's name through the blood in my mouth. I tried to crawl after his kidnappers, but I didn't get far."
"Tell me about the men who took Martin," I ordered carefully.
There was a pause. Then William responded.
"Three of them, in cloaks over light armor. One is oddly tall and slender - his arms and legs are too long for his body. The other two are much alike - perhaps brothers. They are short and heavy, but strong. Now I know what they all are. All three of them had been taken and their souls corrupted. And whatever happened to them has made them powerful."
"Servants of a vampire?" I asked.
"Perhaps. But there was also something else about them."
The dead somehow know things that they didn't understand in life. Nobody really knows how or why. I suspect that death simply puts you closer to a reality that we who are living can't understand. After all, our ultimate end is the final truth our lives. And after we die, perhaps all truths are revealed.
"Where are the men who took your son?"
William looked at me. His eyes flickering in and out of visibility.
"In a far language, the word for 'dragon' is 'dracul'," he told me.
I stiffened in surprise.
"Lady Seeker, go north along the beach and look for that sign," William finished.
Then he turned and left. As I watched, William walked into the surf. A small, gangly, form was waiting for him, knee-deep in water. The boy held his arms up to William. William picked him up and held him close. Then he glanced back at me. After that, they both vanished.
Talking to me - or anyone else who might be able to help - was William's last task. He and his son could now go.
I carefully took down the cairn, placing the stones in an even line on the beach. After that, I got to my feet.
Rose used the edge of her cloak to wipe my face.
"Was it bad?" she asked quietly.
I shook my head. "It was good and bad. Just like life and death."
We were standing in front of a tavern that was on a rise overlooking the Lant. Something about the inn seemed slightly odd until you understood that the proportions were off. For example, the door was about one and a quarter of normal size. The windows were also higher than you might expect. The tavern only had a single floor, but it also seemed tall.
The sign hanging in front of the tavern was of a green dragon curled up like a cat and apparently asleep. An iron lantern was hanging above the sign, giving off the dull yellow glow of cheap oil.
Literally, we had found the sign. William hadn't used the word in the way a Seeker would use it. For a spirit, he'd been very literal.
"Let sleeping dragons lie," Rose muttered mostly to herself.
"We're in the Green part of town," Faye said to me. It was a warning.
There aren't a lot of Greens, but they have a small enclave in Nyack. From what I've heard, it's not exactly dangerous, but outsiders should be careful and polite. Nobody really likes the Greens and they reciprocate the feeling. Usually, they leave other people alone, but if you somehow anger them, they can be very dangerous.
On the other claw, they and the Blood have an ancient history of violence. Bar fights between them can easily become lethal. Both sides wisely steer clear of each other.
"This place has a reputation," Beck said uneasily. "It's a little wild."
"Fade back," I told her. "Smit, stay with Beck, but keep a nose out for trouble."
"Yes, Seeker," they replied softly. Then the two of them drifted into the alley next to the tavern. Smit, of course, seemed to melt into the darkness, but Beck also did a creditable job. To a Blood, their presence was obvious, but the Green are nose-blind.
The front door opened and a couple exited. The man was was in this Green form, so he was bulky and huge. The woman was the same. He looked like a dock-worker. The woman was wearing a prostitute's gown, but it was unbuttoned and open, revealing her bare body underneath. That was the traditional indication that she was open for business.
The couple gave each other an enthusiastic kiss. The man had his hands inside the woman's tunic and on her ass.
Then the woman leaned back and playfully smacked her customer on the side of the head.
"That's enough. Come back after payday," she told him amiably as she pushed his hands away from her body.
The big man shrugged and turned away. He reeked of some kind of strong smokable and his dark-green eyes seemed glazed.
"'Evnin," he slurred at us as he staggered past us and off into the night.
The prostitute looked at us. Her eyes met Faye's.
"It's been a while," she said.
"How's it going?" Faye replied.
Rose and I exchanged a glance. Actually, it wasn't too surprising they knew each other. Faye came from Nyack and Greens are a clannish people.
Then the prostitute looked at me, and a big grin came over her face.
"Great Spirits, be kind tonight," she announced fervently. "Little darling, please tell me that you want to sink in some forbidden Green flesh."
Sex between Blood and Green isn't actually forbidden in any formal sense, but the two peoples tend to avoid each other. Which meant, of course, that any relations between the two have an exotic aura. Some people find that sort of thing irresistible. Many Blood and Green want to sample the other side at least once in their lives.
Faye had to stifle a snort. Rose's eyes were closed and she was trying not to laugh.
"You're a pretty one," I said as I stepped closer to her.
Actually, that was true. Her hair was pure black and her eyes were bright and piercing emeralds. Her proportions were... well... big, but it definitely worked for her.
"What's your name?" I asked.
"Charity," she told me with a big grin, "but that doesn't describe my business practices."
"Is a silver good enough?" I asked. As I understood it, that was a bit high, but it struck me that Charity was a woman who would be able to demand a higher price than most.
She nodded. "That's fine, but tips for good service are always appreciated. For example..."
Then she grabbed me by the shoulders, yanked me close, and stuffed my face between her bare breasts. She was sweaty, but that was to be expected. And she smelled of sex, drugs, alcohol, and perfume that had been applied with surprising delicacy but was now smeared.
I took deeper notice of her scent. She preferred rum. So far that night, she'd had three customers - two men and a woman. Her dinner had been sausage and spiced potatoes. She had children.
"Open your mouth," she ordered.
"What?" I asked in muffled surprise.
That was enough. She popped one of her nipples in my mouth. Since I was face-height to her breasts, that wasn't as awkward as it might sound.
After a moment of surprised hesitation, I did what was expected of me.
"Oh, this is going to be fun," Charity cooed down at me. She was smoothing back my hair with both hands.
The interior of the Green Dragon was something of a mess, but it was a cheerful mess. The customers were raucous but amiable. A good percentage of the crowd were dock-workers and sailors, although some local journeyfolk were also present. Actually, there was a surprising mix of peoples present, although Greens were the most common.
As near as I could tell, I was the only Blood.
A good number of prostitutes were present. They were a mix of Green, Folk, and Wilder. Everywhere you looked, there was bare flesh revealed by open gowns, and more than a few women were simply nude. Tattoos and body paint were common.
The diversity of drink and drugs was incredible. If you could drink it, smoke it, or swallow it, someone was doing just that.
A Wilder bard was sitting on the bar, strumming his guitar and singing a song that toyed with the similarity between the words "seaman" and "semen". His audience was roaring with laughter.
There was a corner mostly filled with female couples. Charity dragged us there. Faye and Rose had an arm around each other's waists and were doing a fine job of looking like a pair of city-girls out for a rowdy night on the rude side of town.
Charity found us an empty table and sat down in a chair that was made of heavy timbers. Then she calmly dragged me into her lap. Faye and Rose sat opposite us.
"You drinking?" Charity asked hopefully.
Rose threw some coins on the table. "Yes," she answered for us.
Charity's eyes brightened as he waved a big green hand at a tiny Green barmaid who looked depressingly young.
"Grog!" Charity yelled. The barmaid nodded and began winding her way to the bar.
"Grog's really a thing?" I asked in surprise.
"Oh, yes," Charity said. Faye and Rose nodded their heads in agreement.
"So what's your story?" Charity asked me.
I felt an urge to just tell her the truth, but I fought it down.
"We're on our way to a party," Rose answered quickly. "We decided to stop here first."
The barmaid showed up with four wooden tankards and put them in front of us. Drink sizes in the Green Dragon were just as oversized as everything else. Rose slid the coins over to the barmaid and told her to keep the change. The barmaid smiled prettily, opened her blouse, and rubbed a bare nipple against the side of Rose's face.
The only thing that masked Rose's surprise was the way Charity and Faye drained their tankards in one long swallow and then slamming them onto the table.
Meanwhile, Rose and I took careful sips.
Dear Old One, it was horrible. But Rose licked her lips appreciatively and took a long drink.
I handed my tankard to Charity. She unhesitatingly downed it while giving me a thankful fondle.
Once she was done with my drink, Charity suddenly became serious.
"Okay," she said to Faye and Rose in a suddenly business-like voice. "Do you two want in on this? We could go into a back room and get into a big naked pile, but I won't tolerate any silly arguments! Short stuff here paid me, so she goes first. If you two want to be part of a package deal, that will cost another silver. Look, it's really better all around if you just let me take charge."
"Let's go for the big naked pile option," I told her. Then I turned my head, grabbed Charity by the back of the neck, dragged her closer, and kissed her.
"And I really can't imagine you any other way than in charge," I whispered in her ear.
The 'backroom' was a dimly lit storage chamber with a few chairs and - no surprise - an oversized bed.
I won't even try to describe the scent. As near as I could tell, quite a few people had already been in the room that night. This was Charity's third time.
So we had privacy. Charity hung her gown on a handy hook. Then, with surprising grace, stood on one foot, and then the other, to pull off her sandals.
"How long's it been, Faye?" she asked once she was finally unclothed.
Faye paused to think. "What? Five years?"
"Yeah, about that long," Charity said after a moment's thought. "How's Ben?"
"Fine. I don't see him as often as I'd like, but we spent some time together just a little while ago. How's Nick doing?"
Charity shrugged. "He's chain-ganging again. That's why I'm back to work."
"And the kids?" Faye asked.
Charity brightened. "Shooting up like weeds! Sammy still asks about you and Ben."
So not only did Charity and Faye know each other, they apparently knew each other pretty well.
Then Charity looked at Rose and I. "Are these two who I think they are?"
Faye nodded. "Yep."
Charity considered that as she examined us carefully. "This isn't about all of us getting into a big naked pile, is it?"
Faye smiled and shook her head.
"No," I said.
Rose chuckled. "Actually, I'm definitely interested, but these two can be kind of stiff about that sort of thing."
"Could'a told me that 'fore I got all naked," Charity growled. Then she leaned against the nearest wall and crossed her arms over her bare breasts.
"So waddya want?" she asked.
"We're looking for three men," I told her.
Charity shook her head. "Look, sweetie, a lot of men come in here," she told me in exasperation.
"Char... please," Faye said softly. "Just hear her out. It's important we find those guys."
Charity made an obvious effort to be patient.
"They're together," I added. "One is tall and skinny, with out-of-proportion arms and legs. The other two are shorter and might be brothers. They're most likely Wilder."
Faye and Rose looked at me in surprise. They hadn't been part of my conversation with William.
"What's this about?" Charity asked angrily.
I decided to simplify. "We think those three men are slavers."
Charity's lips went into a hard line as her now cold eyes met mine. Then she looked at Faye.
Faye nodded. And then Charity looked back at me.
"There are some regulars who fit your description," Charity said. "Stick around, they should be here soon enough."