The Cursewright's Vow

Chapter 12: In Titansgrave, Part 6

 "What do you mean?"

Irgrin rolled to the head of the table and tugged back the sheeting. Ammas could see the man was sturdily built, pale with death, and little else, because most of his head was gone. The cursewright made a thoughtful noise in his throat and bent down, inspecting the chin, where a large and ragged hole ringed with powder burns tunneled into the flesh. "Someday, Mielle," he said with a glance at the pepperbox on the Captain's hip, "you're going to show me how that thing works."

"Prove to me that you can show the Doge was wrong not to bring you in immediately and I'll let you fire it yourself."

"Now that's something I couldn't possibly resist. May I have my dagger, Mielle?"

Thalia drew it from her belt and handed it to Ammas, who murmured thanks and sheathed it. "You need it for the test?"

"No, but I know this old drunk can't wait to take apart a skymetal dagger to steal secrets of my trade." Irgrin cackled delightedly. "Now, if I were a landowner I'd be backing you for Doge in the next election, Mielle -- "

"Gods forbid," she muttered.

" -- because you're about to see how easily I could have proven what you needed." From a pouch on his belt Ammas drew his twinhooks. The silver prongs sprang apart, glittering in the morgue's lamplight.

Mielle swore under her breath. "I swear before the gods, Ammas, the next time you're arrested I'm frisking you. Are you ever not armed?"

"Depends on your definition. Frankly I can't blame you. I certainly wouldn't want to frisk me. But this is a tool, not a weapon." Ammas peered up at the Captain with a crooked smile. "It makes a wonderful lockpick."

Mielle shook her head and watched, scowling, arms crossed over her chest. Irgrin shook with laughter. Ammas bent back to the corpse, his expression deadly serious as he tilted back the brim of his hat to better see. Lightly he pressed the silver prongs to the dead man's sternum, directly between the pectorals. At once thin smoke began to rise from the white flesh, accompanied by an odor of cooking meat and burning hair. Beneath these more familiar scents lurked that rank woodland perfume, now with smoky undercurrents. 

Ammas held the prongs against the white flesh until black scorch marks were visible around their sharp tips. Lips curling into a satisfied sneer, he withdrew the prongs, wiping them on his robes before returning them to their pouch. A charred burn was plainly visible on the stark white flesh.

"That is what werewolves feel when they touch silver. When they're alive, their bodies can repair the damage almost instantly, but not too quickly for pain to register. It makes silver blades and arrows more effective in fighting them, more because it maddens them with pain than doing any lingering injury." Ammas was circling the body now. Mielle was glaring at the floor.

"'His Vigilance.' He's a fool," she muttered. "A pompous, swaggering fool."

"Don't be too hard on the Doge," Irgrin soothed. "Stronger men than he is have turned tail at the idea of angering Somilius Deyn."

Ammas, who was far more in agreement with Mielle Thalia, said nothing. On his second pass around the body he stopped short. "Mielle," he said harshly, "what is this?"

Thalia stepped forward, her gaze following Ammas's pointing finger. On the dead man's upper left arm was scrawled a small tattoo.

"Winged feet?" she asked curiously. "Does it mean something? Irgrin noted it. We thought it a military mark, possibly a criminal gang."

"It may mean everything," Ammas said hurriedly, rushing from this body to the next. Without thinking he threw back the next sheet, only to feel his gorge rise unpleasantly as he saw a basket containing the untidy mess of fur, innards, and blood that had been the wolf who had threatened him personally and killed Lena. Quickly Ammas flipped the sheet back in place.