"He's getting..." The Cat searches for the right word with a grimace. "...better."
"Escalating." The Bat agrees with a grunt, gritting his teeth as he examines the corpse that mere hours ago was a living, breathing woman. He thinks her hair might have been golden but it is impossible to be sure. The girl who found the body had been hysterical over all the blood. The Bat had left calming her to Selene and the madam, a no-nonsense sort of woman who, after the initial shock, had pulled herself together admirably, seeming unfazed even by the presence of a demon of the night.
"Escalating." The Cat echoes, her lips twisting in derision, her usual purring tones replaced by a feral snarl so full of hatred that The Bat almost flinches in the face of it. "Melitta, that's the girl, said that Aspasia didn't come back down to the main room after her last patron and she was sent up to see what was wrong. She found the body and screamed." More than just screamed. There is a puddle of vomit in one corner of the room, fresher than the blood. "Mistress Tacita corroborated her story. Aspasia's patron was a regular who left through the atrium. There was no blood on him and he did not seem disturbed or upset."
She leans over The Bat's shoulder and he stills. He trusts her on this investigation. Thief or no, she had been very fierce in her protection and provision for the women and girls of the Quarter. That does not mean he trusts her at his back.
"The Golden Flower has rooms." She continues. "It has a reputation, a good one. It is significantly more respectable than his targets up until now. He's becoming more confident."
"The first kill was sloppy." The Bat agrees. "These cuts are precise, designed to cause pain and shed blood. That is what killed her." He fished a scrap of blood-soaked fabric out of the mess that used to be the young woman's face. The blood clings to his gauntlets, obscene droplets, black on black. "She was restrained and silenced. He wanted to take his time."
Tacita, madam of the guild-house, growls angrily from the doorway. Even in her youth, she would not have been considered a beautiful woman, all hard angles and deep-set eyes over an almost shaplessly thin body. But her house has a reputation. Not the most expensive whores, or the most beautiful, or accomplished, not the cheapest or either, but discrete. In the tangled game of blackmail and extortion that cocoons the Islands like a strangling web, only once has The Bat ever heard of one such incident originating at The Golden Flower, Tacita using her meager resources to devastating effect and ensuring that one particularly greedy, bottom-feeding merchant would never threaten her or her girls again.
She is no Minali, who rules most of the Quarter and the Guild with an iron fist and ruthless efficiency, a government in herself, but that their killer chose this house out of all of them for his kill has disturbing implications. He files that thought away for later examination.
"You'll find him." She says, eyes fixed on them both, The Bat can feel her gaze boring through the back of his cloak. There is nothing in her tone to even suggest that it is a question. You will find this son of a diseased goblin and you will stop him."
"We will." The Cat says lowly, as if a sacred oath. The Bat says nothing out loud but looks at the room of death, the victim that will not be seen as important, and tightens his gloved fist around the remains of the gag.
-JLA-JLA-JLA-
Commander Gordonius' men, led by Gordonius himself, arrive not an hour later, just as The Bat finishes examining the corpse. The Cat disappears over the roofs, a bitter comment about the Guard and how much they care echoing in her wake. The Bat shows himself briefly at the window, then climbs to the rooftop garden and waits.
He doesn't have to wait long, mere moments later Commander Gordonius joins him, his face set against the horror downstairs.
"Bat."
"Commander." The Bat feels himself relax ever so slightly at the presence of his one reliable ally outside of his own Household. "Why are you not with your family? It is the first night of Spring-rise."
Commander Gordonius sighs and runs a hand over his face, a sardonic twist to his lips. "Have you spoken with my wife recently, by any chance?" He asks bitterly. "And I could say the same to you."
The Bat growls but continues, brushing off the Commander's searching look. "This is not an isolated incident."
The Commander snaps to attention, his weariness melting away. "What?"
"Before tonight, there were seven bodies." The Bad says. "All young women of the evening. Most of them slaves or orphans, all victims of this killer. None until now noticeable enough to merit a response by the Guard for more than clean up."
"Skotadi's Breath," Gordonius curses quietly. "A hunting killer on our hands and no way the Council will permit me enough resources to track him down." His hand fists around the hilt of his sword, the leather and mail of the gauntlet creaking with the movement. "I'll get a seer on it if I can, but I doubt it'll do much good. We don't have access to anyone with the kind of Clear-Sight we'd need."
The Bat grunts agreement. People with some form of the Sight are a pence a score, charlatans claiming abilities they did not possess even more common. True Seers, men and women with the power to direct their own abilities rather than simply be directed by them… the number of those in the settled world can be counted on one hand with enough fingers left over to gravely insult them.
The handful of Sighted the Guard have access to consists mostly of low-powered fore-seers who are more helpful predicting, vaguely, when or where something might go wrong than tracking-
He paused. "He will kill again. Soon, before the end of Spring-Rise. Have your Watchers on alert for anything unusual.
Gordonius nods, thinking along the same lines. "I will do what I can, but you know that the murders of a handful of prostitutes will not matter to those in power."
"But it matters to us." The Bat says, and leaps from the rooftop.
-JLA-JLA-JLA-
"I trust your night was fruitful?" Alfredos says as Brutus emerges into the hall from the hidden chamber upon his return to the villa.
"There was another murder." He says shortly, striding past the steward towards his rooms. Alfredos follows behind with a slight sigh.
"You cannot save everyone, Master Brutus. You must focus on those you have aided."
Brutus only does not slam open the door to his chambers because that would wake the handful of slaves asleep in the quarters a floor below. This is not the estate, far from any life save Alfredos and Brutus himself. "I was two streets away, Alfredos! If I had not stayed so long at the masquerade or simply had not gone at all-"
"You have a duty to your people," Alfredos says crisply, a sharp edge to his voice. "As their Prince."
"A duty." Brutus scoffs. "A duty to what? Get drunk? Surround myself with new women every day? Embarrass myself and my House in public? What is this duty you are so sure of?" He clenches his fists tight and grits his teeth against the anguish in his belly.
"The duty that has always been of your House," Alfredos says. "To guide, to lead, to heal, and protect. To bring what has been scattered together and to make the weak strong." He lays a gentle, wrinkled hand on Brutus' shoulder, all the tension of the past two days melting away as though it had never stood between them. "So many of the High Houses have neglected the gifts of their Blood, Master Varius." The deliberate use of his House name seems strange and distant to him, as if it is a title that belongs to someone else. "Do not forget yours."
Brutus looks towards his window and does not flinch away from the figure in front of the opening, her spectral features hidden by the marks of her murder. Her sisters in death line the walls to either hand.
"I have never forgotten."
-JLA-JLA-JLA-
Brutus wakes to Alfredos' knock on the door. He groans and rolls to the side. The light is dimmed through the window, indicating the descent into evening. If his rooms faced the street there would be flickers of torchlight and all the clatter of a city in festival but none of that penetrates to the gardens of the inner courtyard gardens, the slight glow is the watery blue of charmed light-stones and the only sound is the faint, barely audible murmur of the fountain at the center.
"You have a half-candlemark before you must make you next public appearance, Master Brutus." The steward's voice sounds amused as he enters the room and places a small tray on the table in the corner. Brutus watches him with blurred vision through eyelashes that have not yet realized they were not meant to be stuck together. "Fotapsia knows you must not forego an opportunity to advance your interests."
He briskly removes the coverings from the bed and Brutus groans again, burying his face in the pillows. Alfredos sighs, sounding amused, and the encroachment of a familiar, bitterly rich scent has Brutus looking blearily upwards enough to see the small cup Alfredos is holding just out of his reach.
"You dine with High Councilman Marcius tonight." Alfredos reminds him. "It would not do to be later than your usual custom."
With a third, soul-deep groan, Brutus hauls himself out of bed and downs the contents of the cup in one go, feeling the burn of the heat and cinnamon on his tongue and throat. "Must I?" He is aware he sounds like a petulant child but does not particularly care. Dealing with Lucanus Marcius is a strain at the best of times. This is not the best of times.
"Unless you wish to snub one of the most powerful men on the Islands, thereby rendering your life and business—both of them—that much more difficult, you must."
Brutus actually considers it for a moment before coming to the conclusion that if obtaining harbor permits for auxiliary security forces become more difficult than usual due to his reluctance to attend one dinner, than Lucius will arrange to have him assassinated. Reluctantly he rolls off the bed and, still half-asleep, accepts and dons the clothing that Alfredos hands him, one at a time.
Once he is dressed, Alfredos fusses for a few minutes, straightening folds and re-fastening the unevenly done up laces on Brutus' tunic. "It shall only be a small dinner. A few Council members, some members of the Houses. Nothing like last night."
Brutus grunts agreement as he reluctantly begins to truly awaken. "Easy enough to appear bored and leave early."
Alfredos hums a non-committal sound that Brutus decides not to analyze.
-JLA-JLA-JLA-
Marcius owns a villa surpassed in grandness only by those of the Houses Varius and Caelinus and perhaps Copus. Marcius' villa is the picture of cold, sprawling wealth and the hall where the dinner takes place is long, wide, and open, reminiscent of certain corridors of the Courts themselves.
Brutus is seated at the high table, on Marcius' left, Isodorus Drakon and his wife on his own left. Isodorus seems mostly focused on his discussion of the history of the Western Coasts, especially the kingdom of Astremonde, with the Council member on his other side and Brutus' conversation companions are thus limited to Marcius himself and Junia Drakon.
"How fares the House Drakon?" Brutus asks jovially. "I have heard that the winds have favored you."
"Indeed." Junia murmurs, the very picture of a demure, high-born wife. "Business has been good. We recently established a new trading relationship with Astremonde."
"Isn't that a bit far?" Brutus feigned confusion. "Unless you have found a way to make ships sail on land, that would be wondrous!"
"Hardly," Junia's lip curls just the slightest bit in a pained expression. "We have come to an understanding with King Olivier, who recently was rescued from a deserted isle in the Dark Sea. Astremonde shall provide soldiers to protect caravans for overland transport once the ships dock in the Empire."
Brutus makes a vague noise of agreement and holds up his wine bowl for one of the attending slaves, a girl with wide brown eyes and clothing that is already disarranged, to refill. He ensures that nothing in his manner implies that she should approach even closer to provide…other services. There are reasons he only engages with women of the houses who care not of any risk to their reputations and those of the Guild-Houses.
Brutus passes by the door to the great tent on his way to tend to the camels and other various beasts of burden owned by warlord Scevola. In the brief glimpse he gets of the banquet inside, he recognizes Shria, a girl purchased at the same time and from the same traders as himself, entwined with one of Scevola's honored guests, a look of enrapturement on her painted face.
Later, when he returns to the cook-fires after most of the victory celebrations have died down, he nearly walks into Shria, sobbing her heart out beside the cook, Maeve, a small but intimidating woman whom Brutus thinks might be from Alfredos' homeland, and who has been the property of Scevola for nearly two decades.
Maeve looks up as Brutus steps into the dying firelight and roughly nudges Shria. "Pull it together, girl. You'll have to get used to it you know."
"I-I-I can't." Shria sobs, her softly angled features that hearken to the noble families of one of the southern lands Brutus has travelled through these past years twisted in anguish, the paint running from the wetness on her cheeks and the khol around her eyes smeared in a grotesque parody of a mask. "I can't do this."
Maeve sighs and her face and tone are sharp but her touch gentle as she hands the girl a singed scrap of rag used to remove pots from the fire. "No one cares about your tears." She says brusquely.
Two nights and three raucous tents of men later, Shria is dead, her wrists slit on the pillow of her bed-roll. Maeve burns the bloodstained fabric and redistributes the rest without a word.
A week later, Brutus slips away in the dead of night. He has seen enough, it is time to move on.
He forces himself out of the scraps of memory. "Sounds fascinating. Have you been able to meet with the king about it?"
He is aware of the miraculous recovery of the young Astremondian prince who had been given up for dead after his ship was lost at sea years ago, as well as his assumption of the throne upon his return. He finds the coincidence of the appearance of a masked archer in the city of Luce and the surrounding countryside, terrorizing the nobles and wealthier citizens…not very coincidental.
Junia, not seeming to have noticed his mind's journey simply inclines her head. "My husband and I shall accompany the first ship and travel with the caravan to Astremonde."
"Who shall manage your business here?" Brutus exclaims, blinking at her as if shocked.
"Our steward is quite capable." Junia says replies stiffly. "And my husband's aunt was recently widowed and has returned from Astremonde. She is also well familiar with the management of the ships and business of the Island."
The population of Mystiko is small, less that a fifth of that of Gotham, mostly centered in the small port-town with a few farming and fishing communities scattered in the small hills and along the coasts, and one village near The Dragon's Cove that is famous world-wide for their exquisite earthenware and delicate jewelry. It is an island with few resources of its own and the House Coronus had built themselves upon turning other's raw materials into beauty, a tradition that remained even after the loss of the Bloodline.
At one of the lesser tables, Brutus can see the young man from the carriage ride out to the troupe-camp, deep in conversation with the girl from the same, who is sending out all the signals of timid flirtation, met with his equally timid reciprocation under the watchful eye of her formidable mother.
She could make a worse match. The young Arcadius is hardly one of the wealthiest high-born of the Islands, but his Bloodline is good and respectable and his prospects with the Council are secure. Brutus estimates a courtship of three months before the match is announced.
A disturbance on the floor of the hall pulls his attention away from the young romance to the side. For the first part of the dinner, the open hall floor had remained deserted with the exception of a handful of skilled musicians playing softly. As the third course is brought in however, the musicians begin to clear the floor and various, seemingly random objects are brought in and assembled.
Brutus leans over so that he is far closer to Marcius than is polite. "Wassat?" He slurs his speech ever so slightly to bear out his appearance of being well into his cups already.
Marcius' nose crinkles in disgust briefly before he smooths it over and smiles, a tone behind the expression that makes Brutus' instincts tense, ready for a fight though he carefully keeps his body language loose and unguarded. "Just something a little more…interesting." Marcius' smile sharpens with anticipation. "It would be a shame not to take advantage of the opportunity after all."
It is the troupe, or rather, part of the troupe. The children.
Helios officiates, his booming voice toned down somewhat for the occasion, his wide smile and dramatic flourishes a pretty distraction from the tension around his eyes.
As each child comes forward and performs; jugglers and tumblers, a fire-eater, a knife thrower, two girls who twist their bodies into impossible knots, all shiny in their skills, Brutus cannot ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach, or the way the torches and light-stones begin to take on a sinister tinge, the shadows of the children looming behind them seemingly taking on a life of their own. Monsters, ready to devour.
The finale is the two young flyers and Brutus watches the little pick-pocket make daring leaps across the open air above the hall, to be caught securely by the older boy, hands on each other's wrists in a grip that both imitates a warriors greeting and seems so much more.
Out of the corner of his eye he can see Marcius and he does not imagine the way the high councilman is fixated on the younger boy, nor the way, as he slowly and deliberately applauds a mid-air somersault, how he looks across the hall and meets the eye of councilman Vaneris, his second on the Council.
The children take their bows, waving to the audience, and Helios hustles them out of the hall, away from the eyes of the high-born. Two of Marcius guards follow them into the darkness a few moments later.
A streak of cold lightning races down Brutus' spine, and is gone.