Nightfire | The Whispering Wall #1

Thirty Three: Nict

"He knew me," Arlen muttered, taking a long draught of whisky and savouring the burn as it went down. "He knew me."

"Sounds like you've been going back and forth a while," Usk said, confusion evident. Arlen sensed rather than saw the barbarian give him a wary look.

"No." His fingers squeaked on the glass bottle as he gripped it, hard. "He knew my name. My last name."

Usk was silent. Arlen only felt a limited satisfaction at getting his point across, but the issue remained; surnames were Devil property. No one knew true names outside of the guild on pain of death, and the Unspoken had known his. Had he told others? Was Arlen jeopardising everything by not having mentioned this to Marick sooner? In the bitter stir of their heated discussion over Arlen's tasks, Arlen hadn't shared the revelation, but Usk's quietness made him think again. The barbarian wasn't known for shutting up, which meant it was serious enough to pierce that thick skull of his.

"You don't think he used to be a Devil?"

Arlen laughed, but it was bitter. He took another sip of whisky. "What, him? I'd never believe it in a million years."

"How else would he know your name?"

"I don't know." The brief flash of mirth vanished. "But Lord Harkenn would never hire a Devil, not even for information. He's a paranoid bastard."

"Knowingly." Usk shrugged.

"No way." Arlen pushed the bottle towards Usk and stood up, tired of the conversation. "I'm going. If I'm supposed to be solving an impossible murder I suppose I should get a head start."

Usk solemnly touched two fingers to his chin and then to the sky as a prayer to Nict. Arlen sneered and swept from the tavern, into the brisk chill of evening. The air hung heavy with a crawling mist, sharp in his nostrils after the smoky fug of the taproom. He pulled up his scarf around his face and turned off left, using the fuzzy glow of lanterns and candles in windows to navigate.

He wasn't entirely sure where he was headed or what he planned to do; Shadow's Reach was vast, full of hidden places, narrow streets and dark corners. Perfect for getting away; not so much for finding people who didn't want to be found. Arlen wasn't usually grasping that end of the stick, and he was certain already that he didn't enjoy it.

"Just find them," Arlen muttered, mimicking Marick's voice. "I trust that you're capable. Capable, my arse."

It wasn't long before he heard the river. He didn't usually travel at ground level, and the shadows whispered and withdrew as he passed alleys and dark recesses rendered even more invisible by mist. He struggled to admit it to himself, but he was half-hoping someone would pick a fight with him, give him something to do with his hands, something he could be certain of. Information and rumours had uses, but they weren't Arlen's favoured medium. He had grown up getting by hands-on, fighting, intimidating, tricking his way through; all this sneaking and prying – non-invasive, intangible – wasn't Arlen's usual style at all. He was used to breaking into the castle for information by now; it was a payoff for his place in Marick's closest circle. But it felt oddly craven, never looking his targets in the eyes or letting them know he was there; more so, that his target this time was unknown, and had introduced him to the first stirrings of fear he had felt in years.

He blinked, shook his head to clear his thoughts. "Nict preserve me."

When he judged himself to be a few streets over from the Aven, he felt along the wall of a nearby building for a leg-up and hoisted himself to the roof, using the guttering as a hand-hold. The mist was low-lying; from his vantage point on the roof Shadow's Reach was a mass of points and roof ledges, like the skeleton of some vast beast. The Orthanian temple was as visible as ever, tinging the evening golden, a halo of flickering braziers burning away the fog around it. The river had vanished entirely. Somewhere not too far from him, a demon howled. The dimness was bringing them out early.