The rest of the Madcaps had no idea where Cabyn Sorice spent her downtime; it was better that way. Bravos in a soup kitchen would only end in pain. Sorice doled out rat stew to the homeless and luckless in line. Her smile reached her eyes, but it did nothing to brighten them. Her spirit mask sat around her left eye like a yellowed ivory birthmark. None of the diners commented; most of them knew her as the whisper she was, and others were too out of their heads on drugs or misery to notice anything at all.
“Be careful, dear,” said the next woman in line. “A lot of strange folk about—mean a body harm.”
“I’ll keep a watch out, Mrs. Branburn,” Sorice said. The woman flickered in her vision; Sorice squinted her right eye to sharpen the vision through her spirit mask. The ghost stabilized. Sorice met her smile with one of her own, until a spot of blue across the dining hall caught her attention.
Her eyes met those of the Bluecoat officer; she watched him startle and stiffen as her mask slid further across her face into a domino. The man’s eyes narrowed, and he began to move past the tables toward the serving counters. Sorice ducked her head. She handed off her pot to another volunteer.
“Mrs. Branburn,” she hissed to the ghost, “Do you see that man? He has a sword, I know it, and—” Edine Branburn, dead these three years due to Bluecoat negligence, did not need the magical order Sorice could have brought to bear on her. The frumpy woman was already charging through the tables toward the man, shredding away her form to reveal teeth and phantom flesh more like that of a leviathan than a person. She rammed the approaching Bluecoat; instead of impacting, she disappeared. Sorice did not see the possession.
She was already gone.
Five nights. Five nights trailing the Rat Kings for, apparently, naught. But rumor had it that they’d made a big score—a killing, in fact—and the assassins were celebrating at the Sundown Tavern. Sorice toyed with her mug of diluted whiskey while she eavesdropped.
“‘S gonna be hard to get our due rep if they cover h’up her death, righ’?”
“They can’t keep it wrapped forever,” someone said. “Everyone h’rd the death bells. Everyone saw the spirit wardens head to Man’r Edgeworth.”
“What if our new spook here,” said the first voice, “Makes a ghost haunt th’manor? Then—they’ll won’t be able to hide it! You do that, Casran? C’n you do that?” Sorice dropped her mug onto the scarred table. She craned her neck for a glimpse of the assassin gang.
Her own yellowed skin, her small, thin nose, her heavy eyebrows. The dark, wavy hair was just the same, except that Casran’s was shorter. The same watery green eyes, the same spare build. But something was—wrong. Sorice’s mask oozed across her face until it surrounded both eyes, and then she saw the haze around her brother. “He” wore a blue coat muffled under black rags. Sorice shoved herself to her feet just as hands clamped down on her shoulders from behind.
Chair. Table. Gag. Oil lamps. Smirk. Blood. Chair. Gag. Table. Sorice repeated the mental mantra until the black faded from her vision. Her gaze refocused on the smirking officer sitting across from her. She flexed her manacled hands; she grunted into her gag at the very wrong movement from her broken thumb. Chair. Table. Smirk. Sorice struggled to focus as the Bluecoat leaned forward across the table.
“Look,” he said. “This isn’t about you, or your brother. This is about the rest of the Madcaps. Tell us who you, they, were working for, or where they are, and you’re free to go. Otherwise... you have a lot more fingers.” She stared at him, and the man sighed. “I’m not doing this because I, because I want to! Do you think that crew of wreckers is going to treat a whisper like you right? The destruction of those mushroom tunnels—” He shook his head. “Teams are still clearing the rubble. That’s a big chunk of food production gone.” He studied Sorice. “You care about that, don’t you?” Sorice stared at him. Her yellowed ivory mask had swamped her face completely ever since she’d been conscious; the chisel marks where the Bluecoats had attempted to remove it while she was out still stung. Sorice stared the Bluecoat. She hung her head in a sign of agreement. The man reached forward and pulled the cloth gag free of her mouth.
“You're the one from the soup kitchen,” Sorice said. The Bluecoat’s eyes widened. He lunged across the table with the cloth, but Sorice forced her hand through her shackle; she fended him off long enough to shout: “Edine Branburn!” The officer stiffened, sat back, and then frowned at Sorice.
“Oh, my dear,” he said. “Are you quite right?” He hastened to unlock Sorice’s remaining manacle, and the neck brace holding her in place. The whisper spat blood.
“I’m fine, Mrs. Branburn,” Sorice said. She stood. “Well. While we’re here, let’s see what these rats have on Casran.”
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