she saw nothing at all—and then she raised a hand.
They halted as she examined what lay ahead. She thought she could see a handful of unusual scrivings on the floor a few dozen feet away—a scrived timepiece, a sachet, a fire starter for lighting a pipe, an augmented knife…
It’s a person, she thought. I’m seeing what’s in his pocket or on his belt…
They weren’t moving. And they were just beyond the light cast by their lanterns.
Someone is lying down over there, she mouthed to Gregor, pointing ahead.
Gregor nodded and crept forward, espringal raised. Sancia watched, trying not to breathe too loudly as his light stretched forward along the wooden floors of the corridor…until it fell upon a spreading pool of blood.
Gregor paused ever so briefly at the sight of it. Then he walked forward until the light illuminated the body of a man lying facedown on the side of the corridor.
He did not rush to the body. Instead, Gregor looked into the darkness, head cocked, no doubt listening for the killer. Then he stepped forward through the blood, knelt beside the body, and rolled it over.
Gregor quickly withdrew his hand. Sancia couldn’t see what he was reacting to, but it was no comfort to her that a veteran of so many wars could have such a reaction.
“What is it?” she whispered.
“This man…This man’s eyes have been removed,” said Gregor.
“What?” she said, horrified.
“His eyes are gouged out.” He leaned closer and held his little lantern up to the body’s face. “No. Cut out.” He examined the rest of the man. “And…Sancia…I think he did this to himself. Look.”
Grimacing, Sancia approached and saw the augmented knife clutched in the man’s fingers. His wrists had been slashed open, and his front was covered in blood.
“Wait,” she said. “He killed himself?”
“Yes. Though I suspect he cut his eyes out first.”
She swallowed her horror and studied the body. He looked quite affluent, wearing an elaborate doublet and hose, with lace collars and cuffs. She examined him with her scrived sight, and peered closer at his scrived sachet and the many permissions it bestowed on him.
“Definitely Dandolo,” she said. “And I think a scriver. I haven’t studied their sachets in a while, but…this looks very inner-enclave to me. Why did he do this?”
“I do not know.” Gregor looked down the corridor and held his lantern high. “But that’s where he came from.”
She looked and saw droplets of blood on the corridor’s darkened floor, marking the man’s path. He must have come from the other end of the corridor.
There was a noise—a strangled sob from the far end of the corridor, lost in the dark.
Sancia did her utmost not to jump or scream. Gregor’s face remained totally impassive. He stood, raised his espringal, and began stalking down the corridor toward the sound.
“Please come with me,” he said quietly. “And let me know what lies ahead.”
She followed him down the corridor, stepping around the blood on the floor.
It’s still not midnight yet. What happened here? What in hell is going on?
Finally their light fell upon the end of the corridor: a small, blank wall, with a single plain door, hanging open. She could see nothing but darkness on the other side. There was blood on the handle of the door and around the frame—remnants of bloody handprints as someone fumbled with it, she guessed.
“Sancia,” whispered Gregor. “What is in that room?”
She walked forward. Little tangles of logic and arguments sprang to life—all of them small, trivial, and mostly in bunches on the floor.
She swallowed again. Her mouth and throat were very dry. “I think it’s…I think there are bodies in there, Gregor,” she said. “Nine of them.”
Gregor stood there for a moment, totally frozen, his espringal trained on the open door. She saw his brow and temples were covered in sweat. Then he walked forward, and Sancia followed.
They heard the sound again—a strained whimper from within the room ahead.