PART I
WHISPERS BENEATH SILVERLIGHT
The rain hammered the harbor until sea and sky blurred into the same hard gray. Water slipped through the boards under Reinhardt Holt’s boots, working into the seams of his leather. Ships strained at their moorings. Above the docks, idle cargo cranes hung like iron gallows.
Beyond the harbor, Silverlight rose.
The city climbed the hillside in packed layers of brick and cathedral stone, thousands of windows burning weakly through the rain. At the summit, the old basilica clocktower threw a sick light into the mist, its clockface turned toward the harbor. Below it, alleys ran downhill until Silverlight seemed to be draining itself into the dark.
Even the gulls kept off the water.
Reinhardt walked the pier toward the city alone, tall and broad through the shoulders, in no hurry despite the bad leg gone stiff before he came off the ship. Rain dragged at his coat. The hood took most of his face but not the scar, which ran white from brow to jaw through the sealed ruin of his left eye.
The Order had sent him to a cliff village southwest of Silverlight, where the wells had turned salty in a single night and three fishermen swore they’d heard bells under the tide. He’d found salt water, frightened people, little else worth the bother, until the village tavern gave him rumors of a girl gone missing up in Silverlight, a song coming out of the drains. That was enough to bring him here.
When children vanished, markets usually carried it before noon. Mothers shouted across stalls, notice boys copied names in wet chalk, men kicked in doors, neighbors lied to each other, and constables arrived late with questions that helped nobody. Silverlight did none of that. By the time Reinhardt reached the docks, the missing girl’s name had become something men said into their cups, with shutters closing before dark and harbor hands turning aside when he came near.
He had pulled the notice off a post outside the last village tavern and wrapped it in oilcloth before the weather could take the rest. Under the spoiled ink, dark hair clung around a narrow face. The eyes did not belong to a twelve-year-old.
Elsa Hartley had been gone three nights.
A bell tolled somewhere under the streets. Reinhardt stopped as the sound rose through the stones, low enough to sit in his ribs. The basilica clock rang cleaner than that. This sound came from the drains, deep in the wet dark under the city, then vanished so completely that he stood there listening until rain filled the silence it left.
The ship he had paid to hold until dawn knocked softly against its moorings behind him, waiting to carry him back once this detour was done. Reinhardt left it there and kept walking.
The Salt Widow tavern sat at the end of the pier, its rusted sign knocking on its chains. Warm light leaked through the fogged glass, voices moving inside low and packed close together until his boots hit the steps.
Reinhardt went up and pushed the door open.
Heat rolled over him, thick with smoke and salt soaked wool, as dockworkers, sailors, card players, and men with no trade he could name sat around stained tables under low lamps. Dice clicked once at the back, then stayed on the table as he crossed the room. A few heads turned, though most found their mugs again before he reached the bar. A skinny cat watched him from a barrel and decided he wasn’t worth the trouble.
Reinhardt pushed back his hood, rain running from his dark hair onto the boards, the scar over his left eye catching lamplight for half a second before shadow took it again as he crossed to the bar and sat, taking weight off the bad leg.
The bartender was a heavy, bald man with his sleeves rolled and his forearms wet, wiping a glass that was already clean. A coil of wet net lay under the bar rail, a bone needle still caught in the mesh.
“Kitchen’s shut.”
Reinhardt worked one glove off and laid it on the bar, the leather coming away finger by finger to show old scars from wrist to fingertips.
“Good,” he said. “I’m not here to eat.”
A man near the stove laughed once, then lowered his stare back to his cup. The bartender looked up at last, gaze moving from the scar over Reinhardt’s left eye to the old scars across his knuckles, the clean glass going still in his hands.
Reinhardt set the notice down, rain soaked but with the girl still staring out from the spoiled ink. He put two silver coins beside it.
“I need the last place she was seen.”
The stove ticked loud enough to take over the room. At the back table, the dice stayed where they had fallen while a man by the wall began a prayer, lost it halfway through, and touched two fingers to the table before leaving his mouth moving around nothing. A mug creaked under someone’s grip; another man lowered his stare to the boards.
The bartender looked at the notice, then at Reinhardt. “Why’s a stranger asking after missing children?”
“Because I was close enough to hear about it.”
“Answers like that bring trouble into my tavern.”
Reinhardt laid two fingers on the notice. “Your tavern will survive. The Empire has little patience for men who know something about missing children and keep quiet.”
The bartender’s eyes went back down to the paper and stayed there. “Where in the Empire?”
“Kronvaal.”
The word settled over the room hard enough to stop a chair leg halfway through its scrape. Kronvaal meant Imperial red wax on sealed warrants, with men behind them local constables knew better than to argue with.
“Didn’t know the Empire came this far for one missing girl,” the bartender said.
“No. The Empire sent me for something else. Then I heard about the girl, and how quiet your city had gone around her.”
The bartender stopped wiping the glass. “I just run the tavern. Leave me the hell out of it.”
“You hear things.”
“Men talk when they’re drinking. Most of it’s shit.”
“Then give me the part that isn’t.”
Reinhardt studied the room long enough for them to feel it. Men found their drinks, one sailor among them turning his cup with both hands.
He faced the bartender again. “We can do this quiet. Or I can come back after closing, when there’s no room left to hide behind.”
The bartender held his stare a moment longer, only to search the room and find no one looking back. He swallowed.
“Lantern Row,” he said. “Down by the drains.” His gaze flicked to the old sailor by the stove. “Some say they heard singing under the grates.”
“Who heard it?”
“No one you’d trust.”
Reinhardt kept his gaze on him. “That wasn’t what I asked.”
The bartender looked around for help. Men found sudden business with their cups and cards.
Then the sailor by the stove pushed his mug aside, two fingers gone from one hand, his Aethermere naval coat dulled by brass gone black. His beard was yellowed at the chin, his voice low and worn when he spoke.
“I heard it.” Nobody looked at him long.
Reinhardt turned. “When?”
“Night she went missing.” The sailor scratched at a rope scar along his neck. “Took it for a girl at first. Young voice, small enough you’d stop for it, if you were any kind of decent.”
The stove ticked.
“Then it didn’t stop. No breath between the notes, just the same little tune over and over, like something trying to sound young.” His maimed hand closed around the mug. “Thirty years at sea. I’ve heard men drown and ships come apart in fog. Nothing human sings like that.”
A chair scraped behind them, then eased back into place.
“Where exactly on Lantern Row?” Reinhardt asked.
“Drain mouth by the fish market.”
Reinhardt gave the old sailor a small nod, then stood. The bartender flinched before he could stop himself. He folded the notice back into his coat, leaving the coins where they were.
“Why are you giving me these?” the bartender asked.
Reinhardt drew his glove back on, the leather catching on the old scars. “You gave me what I wanted.”
Reinhardt headed for the door, but as he passed the sailor, the old man took hold of his sleeve. His grip was stronger than it should have been.
“Don’t follow it if you hear the song,” the sailor said, low.
Reinhardt stopped beside him. “I heard you.”
The sailor let go. Reinhardt stepped into the rain.
End of the free sample
The descent has only begun.
Three chapters in, the Order has shown its hand and the dark beneath Silverlight is stirring. Keep reading to follow Holt the rest of the way down.
Free to read in Kindle Unlimited.
