Husk: A Maresman Tale (16 page)

The truth of the matter hit Jeb like a punch to the stomach. “To breed,” he said. Suddenly, he couldn’t think of his mother’s face without the urge to vomit.

“Yes,” Marlec said, “but by all means, it’s not as easy as you might think. Once she’s lain with a man, she kills him, and moves on to the next. With your father, she must have struck lucky.”

“Only, it wasn’t lucky for him,” Jeb said.

“And now she’s back,” Marlec mused, “still following her nature, but acting with a purpose.”

“You mean the Maresmen?” Jeb said. Marlec had mentioned revenge before. But revenge for what? For Mortis killing her host? For being driven away?

“Neumal told me there’d been no indication she’d survived Mortis until the first Maresmen were killed. Something about the way they were killed got Mortis suspicious.” He winced and swallowed, and Jeb could guess what he was alluding to. “Seems he must have scared her badly, enough for her to stay away for years. When she returned, all the hallmarks were the same as before. It was like she was serving notice.”

Jeb thought of what he’d done after Sweet had beaten him: gone into the wilds to lick his wounds, grow stronger. Must’ve been in his blood; his mother must have done the same thing.

“I suspect it wasn’t losing the host that got her so vengeful,” Marlec said. “I’d say it was more to do with losing her son. She’s a succubus, Jeb. The only thing she lives for is her offspring.”

A mix of emotions swirled up from Jeb’s guts. She’d killed his father, abandoned him. And what was she? A demon that preyed on lust, and had left him her taint as a parting gift. And yet, if Marlec was right, she’d come back to avenge her loss.

“So, why’d she not reveal herself to me?” Jeb said. “At the Crawfish, when we were alone in my room.” Shog, he’d nearly taken her. Would have, if she’d let him. It all made sense now, except for why she’d said nothing.

“Would you?” the sheriff answered for Marlec. “I mean, if you were a husk and someone you’d not set eyes on in years showed up as a shogging Maresman. Would you take the chance?”

He had a point. Truth was, Jeb didn’t even know how he felt, after what she’d done, what she was. And it didn’t take away from the crux of the matter, either: a husk was a husk, far as Mortis and the others were concerned. If he didn’t kill her, they’d kill him. They’d kill her, too, if they could, but so far they’d proven incapable. Had she grown stronger in the intervening years, or was Mortis the only one with power enough to take her down?

“You ask me,” the sheriff said, “she’s out of here. Wouldn’t surprise me none if poor Maisie’s body shows up in a day or two, but if I was your mother, I’d head my sorry ass back over the Farfalls.”

Jeb wasn’t so sure, but what could he do? Somehow, she had control of the blood trail, maybe even more than the stygian did. She’d come to him, if she wanted to, and if she didn’t, well, he might find Maisie, but like the sheriff said, there was nothing to stop his mother shrugging off her body like an old coat.

“Patience, Jeb,” Marlec said. “It’s not an easy path for you. We should talk.”

“No,” Jeb said, fingers wrapping round the hilt of his saber. “This can wait. There are other things to take care of.”

He shut off his warring emotions just like that, and set his sights on his other problem.

“You know about Boss trading somnificus with the guilds?”

“Nope,” the sheriff said, like he knew damn well what was going on and dared Jeb to say another word about it.

“There’s a different husk over at his place. A stygian. Way I see it, we got us a common problem.”

“Way I see it,” the sheriff said, “you been trespassing and poking your nose in where it ain’t wanted. I already heard all about your snooping, but let me tell you something: Portis might be an oddity to you Maresmen and to you city folk”—he shot Marlec a look full of disdain—“but we got our own way of doing things, and we aim to keep it that way. Mr. Cawlison has a lot of respect here. Lot of respect. Folk think of him as a father, and there’s a good few people who’d be a whole lot worse off if it weren’t for him. You stay away from his property, hear? Else I might just forget what we been discussing and take you in for assaulting Mr. Sweet.”

“Can’t do that, Sheriff,” Sweet said. “I ain’t pressing no charges.”

“You shut up, Sweet,” the sheriff said, “unless you fancy being a rape suspect.”

“Without a victim?” Marlec said. “Sheriff, there’s really no need for this. We should all pull together and find this husk before any more harm is done. If I could just talk to her—”

“Oh, I’ll find Maisie, right enough,” the sheriff said. “I promise you that. Can’t say whether she’ll be alive or dead, but either way, there’ll be an end to this husk business, mark my words. Seems you shogging Maresmen ain’t all you’re cracked up to be, don’t it? Now, get yourself to a healer,” he told Sweet, “and put some shogging clothes on.”

“Allow me,” Marlec said, leading Sweet by the elbow to the open door of the Crawfish. “The Lord himself will tend your wounds through my hands, and maybe you can tell me more about what you saw.” He paused and looked at Jeb. “Don’t do anything rash, Jeb. If you go after her, I should be there.”

“What I do is my business,” Jeb said. He eyed the sheriff. “Mine and mine alone.”

With that, he stalked away up the high street, heading for the stables by the Sea Bed.

19

A
T THE FIRST
hint of dawn, Jeb rode Tubal out of town like a dare. A few early risers stopped and stared, then went back to coiling rope and mending nets. Part of him hoped the sheriff would step out in front of him, try to stop him doing what they both knew he was gonna do. He didn’t rule out Sweet coming back for another go, too, or maybe getting someone to do it for him, given how cowed he’d been after the fight outside the Crawfish. Either one of them would’ve been making a big mistake, the way Jeb felt. But no one showed, and disappointment sunk like a stone to the pit of his stomach as he reached the bridge.

Odd thing was, Sendal Slythe was on the far side, waving off a rider astride a gray palfrey. The former senator hardly struck Jeb as the sort to watch the suns come up. The color drained from his face when he saw Jeb cantering toward him, but he quickly masked his surprise with a lopsided smile.

“Only way to get mail to Brink anytime useful,” he said, cocking his thumb at the dust cloud trailing the horse and rider threading toward the foothills of the Gramble Range.

Jeb pulled up and squinted to see better. “Brink, is it?”

“Business is looking up,” Slythe said. “Need to move fast when the opportunity arises.”

Seemed a roundabout way to ride to Brink, Jeb thought as the dust cloud climbed higher, still heading north. Would’ve been a straighter route to skirt the Chalice Sea and cross the Outlands, maybe even stopping in Lownight for refreshment. He chewed his lip and said nothing of it to Slythe. He had his reasons, Jeb was sure.

“About last night…” Slythe said.

“Fault’s all mine.” Jeb tipped his hat. “It was the drink talking; that and the loss of so much coin. Reckon I owe you an apology.”

Slythe’s eyes widened, and he nodded. “I appreciate that, Mr. Skayne. That was right gentlemanly of you. Are you… leaving?”

“Good day for a ride,” Jeb said. “Helps to clear the head.”

“Indeed,” Slythe said, though Jeb had the sense he’d never ridden a horse, and was probably as unfamiliar with a clear head as a sober one. “Well, nice seeing you.”

“Likewise.”

As Slythe ambled back toward the high street, Jeb steered Tubal toward the western shore until he was out of sight, then looped round and headed for Boss’s place.

20

J
EB TETHERED TUBAL
to a tree in the woods above Boss’s ranch. He inched closer to the edge of the slope and squatted down. The rhythmic trudge of sluggish footfalls echoed up to him through the half-light, and as he waited, a guard came into view around the side of the verandah. Another lay propped against a post, chin tucked into his chest.

The soft glow of a lantern spilled from the window of one of the outbuildings across the field, but as long as he watched, Jeb saw no sign of movement from within.

Smallish animals were now corralled in the pens; they could have been goats, but it was hard to tell from so far away. Behind them, a dilapidated barn he’d not paid any attention to before was silhouetted by the scarlet glare of the rising suns. One of its doors hung off its top hinge and swayed in the gathering wind.

After what seemed an age, another sentry ambled into sight from the opposite side of the verandah, tucking his shirt in and doing nothing to stifle a gaping yawn. He exchanged words with the first guard, who slipped round back. The sleeping man started awake but settled down again when he saw nothing was amiss.

Jeb had seen eight guards previously, but he could only account for three now. Either Boss was tightening his belt, or the others were stationed out of view. Seemed prudent to go with the latter; only, that left the problem of how to get close to the house without being spotted. Assuming, of course, the stygian was in the house. Jeb knew if it were down to him, the husk would be as far from any palatable humans as possible. Boss might have it on a short leash, but a nature like a stygian’s wasn’t made for civilizing.

He sat on the roots of an old oak and leaned back against the bark. He needed to think, to plan, not go charging in on a wave of anger. Least that’s what he took it to be—anger; but anger at who and what was getting harder and harder to untangle. He was even with Sweet on the physical level, but still rankled the big man had attacked him in the first place. The sheriff was starting to grate, but that was nothing new. Maresmen had to deal with that sort of thing all the time. Marlec, on the other hand, was little more than an annoyance. Jeb was sure the monk had somehow rekindled a spark of conscience he’d not had since a child, but it was an easy enough thing to snuff it out again. Time he was done with the stygian, any nagging voice at the back of his mind would be long gone. No, it was Maisie that had him messed up, and chaos like that always caused Jeb to lash out at the nearest target. Strictly speaking, it wasn’t Maisie his ire was aimed at; it was the husk. It was his mother.

A band of iron tightened around his skull, and he grimaced with long-forgotten pain.

Uncle Joe and Aunt Mary never let on if they knew more than Jeb did about his mother. When he asked them where she was, they’d exchange looks, then Uncle Joe would ruffle his hair and tell him soberly she was dead. Died of the plague, he said, and told Jeb to leave it there, no matter how much he prodded. At least it was an explanation a child could make sense of. She hadn’t left him: she’d been taken. But that night Mortis had come, he’d been given another story, one he wished he’d never heard. He denied it every which way, but whatever he came up with as an alternative just didn’t ring true. How else could he explain his own burgeoning abilities, and the insatiable lust that rose to consume him? He kept telling himself all he knew for sure was that his dad was dead and his mother was gone. More than that was just guesswork, and so he painted Mortis as a liar, while adopting Uncle Joe’s strategy of not digging about in the graves of the past. For the most part, it had sufficed, and the unexplained losses formed part of the bedrock of who he was. Problem was, the other parts came from a nature that was anything but human, and it only grew clearer the older he got.

So, he’d known all along, if he was honest. Known from the first Mortis had mentioned it, but the knowing and the accepting never sat snug within him. Until now. His mother was
the
husk, and it was firmer than a fact that she’d killed his father.

So what? It wasn’t like acknowledging it could change it any. He’d grown to live with the logic of the position, accepting it explained what he was, what he had to wrestle with, but beyond that, what was the point of dwelling on it? It’s not like he was the only half-husk in Malkuth. There were easily two dozen Maresmen in the Malfen district alone, and at least as many strung out between Pellor in the shadows of the Perfect Peak, and Arnk on the far side of New Jerusalem. All of them had one husk parent, and most of them had been there when it was taken down. Whatever sufferings never really knowing what had happened to his mother had brought Jeb over the years, at least he’d been spared that: standing by and watching her killed in front of his eyes. He should’ve counted himself lucky, but right now he felt nothing but foreboding. Maybe what he’d been spared as a child he was going to have to face as a man. Worse was the pressing realization he was expected to be the one to do it.

Kill her.

His mother.

Mom.

His mind flicked back to the Crawfish, to Maisie making his bed. Bile rose in his throat as he thought about what he’d felt then, what he’d wanted from her. No wonder she’d resisted him. But why hadn’t she revealed herself then? Maybe she hadn’t recognized him, after all. He couldn’t believe that. A man could look a whole lot different from when he was a child, but not to a mother. Then why? Hadn’t she expected him to be there? Had she expected someone else?

He pushed himself away from the trunk and sat bolt upright. Was that it? Is that why he’d picked up the blood trail and then lost it? Had she deliberately lured him, not knowing who he was, and then blocked the trail once she had an inkling the pursuing Maresman was her son?

His thoughts flashed to the dozens dead in the Outlands—that was how it had first started, how the husk had first come to the Maresmen’s attention. Soon after, they realized they’d been drawn, that the prey was really the predator. His mother, then, was a murderer, although that was maybe crediting her with some semblance of humanity. The term might have fit Jeb due to what he’d inherited from his father, but his mother… she was just a nightmare of the Cynocephalus, a demon, the Wayists would have said. A succubus. She’d sought out only men, and in each case there’d been evidence of mating. That would seem to make her worse than a whore, not that Jeb had anything against whores. Like a spider, Mortis had said. The kind that ate its mate once he’d served his purpose. But how many mates did she need? You’d have thought, once she was pregnant…