The Seat of Magic (34 page)

“Mr. Ferreira. Please, I am not a madman. I have been to the police station already today, but they won't listen to me. I cannot go home.” The old man reached up frail hands and tugged at his white hair. “The screaming is too terrible to bear.”

Duilio patted his shoulder. “What has happened, sir?”

The old man gazed up at Duilio with watery eyes. “The flats above mine. I do not know the man who lives there or his wife. They do not talk to me. Last night I thought I heard crying coming
from their flat. It crept into my dreams and woke me over and over, calling me to help. This morning it became screaming, pushing at me until I had to leave my own home. I covered my ears but it did no good.”

No, Duilio didn't expect it would. “Which house is yours, sir?”

Bastos pointed down the street. “Number 339.”

Some ways down, the pedestrians huddled past that house, clinging together on the far side of the street. Duilio wondered if they even realized they were doing it. There was an odd feel in the air, as if fear had taken a tangible form.

“You work for the police, don't you, Mr. Ferreira?” Bastos asked, glancing back and forth between him and Oriana. “Can
you
not find out what is wrong there?”

Evidently Mr. Bastos read the
Gazette
, too. Duilio cast an apologetic glance at Joaquim, who merely rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Yes, sir,” Joaquim said. “We'll get to the bottom of this.”

Duilio turned to the young man in the apron. “Do you have any cotton? Lint or bandages? I may need it to get closer.”

The young man dashed into his shop and emerged a moment later with cotton bandages. Duilio thanked him and handed one roll to Joaquim before he pulled out some of the cotton and forced a small wad into each ear. He pocketed the remainder and tossed a couple of milreis to the young man, who tucked them into his apron. Duilio could still hear a bit, but it was as if his head were underwater.

With one last nod to Mr. Bastos, Duilio pointed toward the opposite sidewalk, and the three of them headed in that direction, Oriana in the lead. She wended her way between a pair of carriages slowed to a standstill. Duilio followed.

Several houses farther down, number 339 was a building of three stories, very similar to the others that lined the street, built onto each other in one long row, granite or color-washed plaster in white and cream and yellow with red-tiled roofs. Duilio approached
the threshold of the building and stopped, almost paralyzed with apprehension.

He could hear it now, even through the cotton plugs—
the screaming
.

Oriana touched his face with her fingers, drawing his attention back. She gestured with her other hand, asking him to look at her. He kept his eyes on her face as she led him into that malaise of fear. Sweat trickled down his spine.

If his selkie blood lowered his susceptibility to a sereia's voice, then he could only imagine how difficult this must be for Joaquim, who didn't have that protection. Beads of sweat shone on Joaquim's forehead. Duilio gestured for him to stay outside the house.

He used Bastos' key to open the front door and it swung open, revealing a hallway with a narrow stairwell that led to the upper floors. On the other side of the hallway was a door to Bastos' ground-floor apartment. Oriana led Duilio up the stairs, forcing him to climb on while his skin continued to crawl. She paused at the second-floor door but signed for them to go up, so they moved on to the next floor. When they reached the top landing, she tried the door but couldn't get it to open.

Duilio gestured for her to move aside and kicked the door in. As the door crashed back, the fear intensified, hitting him like a wave. His stomach turned, and he leaned his head against the wall in the hallway, intent on keeping his latest meal inside, where it belonged. The worst of it passed after a moment. Oriana's hand touched his face again, her lips moving, and he realized she was singing to him, interference to that other voice. She took his hand and drew him into the apartment, throwing glances behind her every few steps.

Heavy draperies cut the light to a minimum, but there were no furnishings in the room. The smell reminded Duilio of the morgue, all antiseptics and stale blood and urine.

Oriana tugged his hand again, her eyes on his, and he forced his feet to follow. They passed through another empty room, and then
into a wide room where the wood floors were lit by sunlight flooding down from a large hole cut in the ceiling . . . a makeshift skylight. A bed frame with no bedding or mattress stood on their left, and on the right another bed was set against the wall.

A girl lay in that bed, her eyes wide with terror.

Oriana dragged him the last distance to the bed, grabbed his hand and firmly set it over the girl's open mouth. Her breath almost steamed against his palm. The sound of her screaming continued, muffled, issuing from her vibrating gills. Duilio stared down into the girl's terrified face, the eyes red-stained but her face dry. Red inflamed lines crossed her skin, like fingers radiating up from her swollen throat.

Oriana sorted through the contents of a small cart at the foot of the bed. A moment later she returned to his side, a dark bottle in her hand. She picked up the sheet that covered the girl's body and poured some of the liquid onto the corner of it. Then she jerked his hand away and replaced it with her sheet-covered one.

And slowly the screaming eased . . . and then ceased altogether.

Duilio could feel it throughout his body. He hadn't realized how strong the reaction of fear had been until it was gone. He was chilled, his clothes drenched with sweat.

Oriana lifted her hand away from the girl's face, but the girl didn't move.

Duilio dared to pull the cotton from his ears. He could hear the distant sounds of the traffic moving again on the street below, but silence reigned in the barren room now. “What did you do?”

Oriana showed him the dark bottle. “Chloroform. I figured there must be something of the sort on that cart there.”

His breathing was returning to normal. He smelled again the chemical scent of a hospital ward, with the smell of decay and urine mixed in. His eyes watered.

The young woman on the bed lay with a sheet covering her body, but she wore nothing more than that. Her dark hair had been
cropped short. He could see more clearly now the red lines of infection that caressed her face, rising from a swollen seam that ran underneath her chin, down beneath her gills, and across above her collarbone. A blossom of bluish red under the skin showed on one shoulder. Duilio suspected that if they pulled the sheet back, they would find more of that. He could feel the fever rising from her. That was sepsis spreading throughout her body.

“Have you got it under control?” Joaquim called from the front room.

“Yes.”

Joaquim came closer, peering at the girl's swollen neck with its inflamed gills. “I don't understand. I thought your father warned the exiles. . . .”

“She's human,” Oriana inserted softly. “Look at her teeth.”

Duilio leaned over and pulled back the girl's upper lip, feeling again the heat of her breath. The teeth revealed were blunt like his own. He stepped back and surveyed the inflamed rectangular seam in the girl's throat, his stomach turning. “That's not possible.”

Oriana shook her head. Tears glistened in her eyes.

“Marta Duarte,” Joaquim said abruptly, crossing himself. “Check her right arm. There should be a large birthmark just above her elbow. She disappeared from the same brothel as the otter girl, Erdeg.”

Duilio tugged the sheet down a few inches to reveal a port-wine stain on the girl's arm, verifying her identity. He drew the sheet back up. “The gills were spliced in. Grafted in? Felipa Reyna's throat was removed and put in place of this girl's.”

Joaquim turned pale. “Poor girl.”

“We need to get her to a doctor,” Oriana said.

“No, let's bring a doctor here,” Duilio said. “Do you think Dr. Esteves would come?”

Joaquim nodded grimly.

“We'll stay here and keep her drugged,” Duilio said.

Joaquim was out the door in an instant.

“What is the point of this?” Oriana asked.

“I don't know.” Duilio looked about the room, spotlessly clean, barren save for the two beds and cart, then up at the hole cut in the roof. “This took planning,” he said. “They did all this for some reason. It doesn't add up.”

Oriana took a breath and then laid her free hand over her mouth. The smell was stifling. “What can we do for her?”

“Water?” Duilio went back through the flat and located the washroom. He had nothing to carry water in, though, so he returned to the back room and, after sorting through the bottles on the cart, located one that held gauze. He handed the contents to Oriana and went to fill the bottle. When he returned, Oriana was dampening a section of gauze with chloroform. The girl had started to move, coming back to consciousness. He dribbled some water into the girl's mouth, and she swallowed reflexively, her spliced-in gills flaring.

Then Oriana held the gauze over her mouth again. “I don't know how long chloroform lasts.”

Unfortunately, he didn't either. He found some of the remaining gauze, folded it into a pad, and wet it. He laid that on the girl's burning forehead. Then he tidied the sheet, drawing it up about her arms. She'd soiled the bedding at some point, but surely she wasn't aware of it. He hoped not. He didn't think he could bring himself to do anything about it. He met Oriana's eyes. “I don't know what else to do.”

“You're not a doctor,” she said, still holding the bottle of chloroform in one webbed hand and the gauze in the other.

“I still feel like we should be doing
something
for her.”

Oriana regarded him steadily, anger having replaced her earlier tears. “We're going to find them and avenge this horror.”

T
he girl continued to breathe fast and shallow, air rasping through her stolen throat. Duilio knew chloroform was dangerous, but neither he nor Oriana could recall exactly what danger it presented. It might be a mercy if it killed the girl.

Duilio paced, wearing a path between the door and Oriana's side. He itched to be in motion—his brain worked better that way. Oriana kept her eyes on the poor girl's face, watching for signs she was regaining consciousness. She'd removed everything from the top shelf of the cart and pushed the cart to the head of the bed. It looked uncomfortable, but she could sit on it and rest the bottle and gauze in her lap.

“Duilio?” Joaquim called. “I have the doctor with me.” He appeared in the doorway, with Dr. Esteves and his receptionist behind him.

The older man pushed past Joaquim into the room. He came to the bedside, looked down at the drugged girl, and crossed himself. “My God.”

The receptionist—Duilio couldn't recall her name—followed Esteves, her air of efficiency like a wall of iron about her. “Both of you gentlemen leave now,” she said briskly. “The doctor doesn't need you hovering over him.” She took the bottle from Oriana's webbed hands without sparing them a glance. “Now, miss, what have you given her, and how much?”

“I poured some on the gauze and held it to her mouth until she stilled,” Oriana answered. “I don't know how much, exactly.”

“And when was the last time you did so?”

“A few minutes ago, perhaps.”

The woman harrumphed. “Well, not much you could do to hurt this child now. Go on, girl, let us see to her.”

“Is there a washroom?” the doctor asked Duilio.

“I'll show you,” Duilio said. Joaquim accompanied him and the doctor out of the room, pointed out the washroom, and then they made their way down the stairs to the building's front entry, where the clear afternoon air didn't hold the taint of decaying flesh.

“I'm going search the second-floor apartment,” Joaquim said. “I've got legal grounds for going in there. You don't.”

There were times that not actually being a police officer had its drawbacks. Joaquim had to do all the real work alone. Duilio watched Joaquim go up the stairs to the second floor and disappear inside. He closed his eyes and asked if Joaquim would be safe up there. His gift reassured him, despite the questionable circumstance of an unlocked door.

Oriana came down the stairwell. “I left them alone in there,” she said, wrapping her arms about herself.

Duilio put his arms about her. “Don't worry.”

The sun was lowering, sending golden color across the walls of the buildings, lending a false sense of peace to the street scene. The traffic had returned to normal, carriages now moving along the narrow street. People walked down each side of the street again, no few casting a shocked glance at the openly embracing couple. After a moment, Oriana pulled out of Duilio's arms. “So what do we do?”

“I was going to suggest checking the area behind the houses.”

Most blocks of houses had a large open area in their centers, often overgrown with vegetation and filled with refuse and old stone. They descended the steps and walked around the buildings until they found a narrow gravel drive between two houses that
allowed access to the center of the block. Behind number 339 they found a decrepit old stone outbuilding, empty at the moment, but ruts in the alleyway suggested a coach had been kept there. Recent manure told of horses. A large metal bin inside had been used to burn fabric. Sheets, Oriana declared, after finding an unburned piece of cotton no bigger than her finger. Duilio didn't know how much bedding and bandaging the doctor had bloodied in his surgeries, but he'd been thorough in disposing of it.

By the time they got back to the front of the house, Joaquim had come downstairs. “They intended for this all to be found. I'm assuming that applies to the girl in there as well—Marta Duarte. The doctor
wanted
people to know what he's done . . . and why. They left his notes, a journal, and several supposed letters from the Ministry of Intelligence of your people's islands.”

Oriana shook her head. “I can't believe that.”

It was too easy for Duilio's taste. Spies didn't leave out official letters to be discovered. That reinforced Oriana's suspicion that they were trying to start a war. “Let's go talk to Esteves.”

They headed back inside and up the stairs. The door to the third-floor flat hung open, part of its frame torn away when Duilio kicked it in. “We're coming in,” he called to warn the doctor.

“Come along,” the doctor said. “I'll need you to look at this.”

The room wasn't any brighter, but the doctor had replaced the contents of the cart, setting up a makeshift hospital. They had moved the bed away from the wall and closer to the light, and the receptionist sat near the girl's head, a watch in one hand and a dropper in the other. A cup of some sort had been affixed to the girl's forehead by a strap. They'd gotten organized quickly. Duilio's respect for Esteves rose.

“Well, now we know you were right about that book,” the doctor said, his mouth turned down into a frown. “The doctor transplanted the Reyna girl's throat into this girl's body.”

“Transplanted?” Duilio repeated.

Esteves cast regretful eyes over the young woman's unmoving form. “Doctors have long held that someday we will be able to replace damaged organs. Some
have
experimented—with animals, mind you—and there's reportedly been some success with corneas, but something on this scale is the stuff of fiction, Mr. Ferreira.”

“But they gave her a sereia's ability to
call
,” Duilio told him. “We felt it.”

“Temporarily,” Esteves said firmly. “You didn't pull this sheet back, did you?”

Duilio glanced guiltily at Oriana. “No.”

“This poor girl has been operated on
three
times,” Esteves said. “Someone has tried to attach an otter's tail, and there's a square patch of selkie pelt grafted onto her abdomen.”

“Is the patch about the size of a hand?” Duilio asked.

The doctor peered at him narrowly. “Yes.”

“The selkie's missing pelt was eventually found,” Duilio admitted, “and had a healthy patch that size. It was still alive, I suppose, because
that
part was.”

“Well, that graft was done more than a week ago, judging by the growth of the fur and healing,” Esteves said. “The tail was the first surgery, but the throat was in the last few days.”

That matched up with their timeline. And surgery would have been done during the day, when that skylight would give them enough light to see what they were doing. Felipa had died early in the evening, but the doctor might have used lamps to see his work that time.

Dr. Esteves again pointed to the girl's stolen throat. “None of these incisions allow for drainage. That assures death would be the end result.”

Duilio stepped closer. “I don't understand.”

“They hold any corruption inside,” the doctor said, gesturing with his hands. “This doctor had to know she would die from sepsis eventually. He made the incisions
look
good, and I have to wonder if he involved a healer to aid in that.”

“A healer only deals with superficial wounds,” Duilio said. “They won't work on a puncture or anything deep.”

“Yes, because their ability is limited. But a healer could have made the swelling around these . . . implanted parts go away
temporarily
. They could make it appear to be healing. I suspect that was what this was all about. This is for show. The tail isn't even attached to her spine in any way, only sewn on.”

“She could
call
, though,” Oriana protested. “She was
calling
, even if it was a warped version.”

“Oh, yes,” the doctor said to her. “
That
change was more than cosmetic. And it also suggests a healer. The healer could control the flow of blood while the doctor was replacing the voice box. That's the only way such a massive operation could be carried out without the patient dying from blood loss. Even so, I'm shocked this girl is still alive. The healer involved had to have been working herself to death to keep this girl breathing.”

Oriana turned to Duilio. “Could that be why Salazar has been killing so often? Because he's using that strength to keep this girl alive?”

“Killing?” Esteves asked cautiously.

“We think he's been killing one or two women a night,” Duilio told him. “Pedro Salazar is the healer Dr. Teixeira observed at the Medical-Surgical School years ago—a Jesuit priest. We believe Teixeira confronted the man, who later killed him to keep him from talking.”

Esteves shook his head. “A healer who's a killer? And a priest?”

“I'm afraid so,” Duilio said. “A cassock isn't a guarantee of goodness.”

“Unfortunately true,” Esteves said. “Neither is being a healer, I suppose, given how this girl has been tortured.”

“Is there any chance Miss Duarte will live?” Joaquim asked.

“No,” the doctor said. “The infection has spread to most parts of her body. I suspect she's been delirious for some time.”

Joaquim's shoulders slumped when he heard that verdict. Duilio suspected he'd wanted to save at least one—but if the girl did survive, she would never be the same anyway. He set a hand on Joaquim's shoulder. Duilio turned back to Esteves. “Mr. Bastos claimed she was crying in the night, but screaming this morning.”

“Apparently she was abandoned here. These sheets haven't been changed in more than a day.” Esteves wiped his hands together. “I have been giving some consideration to your query about doctors who show an unhealthy interest in such things. There
is
one I recall from my school days. He talked about that book as if he'd seen it, read it. Eventually the doctors who ran the school sent him away.”

“Dr. Serpa,” Duilio said.

Esteves blinked at him, dumbfounded. “How did you know?”

Duilio set one fist against his mouth, trying to sort out what he knew about Dr. Serpa. He strode into the front room and paced its length a couple of times.

Oriana had followed him. “What is it?”

“I think I understand now what the prince decided.” Duilio headed back to the room where the doctor waited. “Dr. Esteves, could she have looked normal
yesterday afternoon
?”

Esteves frowned. “A strong healer could have suppressed the visible symptoms of the sepsis. The girl would already have been dying inside, though.”

“Prince Fabricio left the palace yesterday afternoon,” Duilio said, trying to line events up in his mind. “I think he came here to see this girl, and only after that did they leave her to die.”

The doctor looked as mystified as Oriana and Joaquim did.

“What are you talking about?” Joaquim asked.

“The prince left the palace yesterday afternoon,” Duilio said. “The infante tried to follow him, but lost him.”

“And what does that mean?” Oriana asked.

Duilio tried to work it out. “The prince wants to be like the sea god—the one on the palace archway—you've seen photographs of it,
haven't you? I'll wager that between Serpa and Salazar, they convinced him he could be equal to a sereia, by taking a sereia's power.”

“But his doctor has to know it would kill him,” Joaquim said.

“That's the point,” Oriana said before Duilio got it out of his mouth, understanding lightening her features. “The doctor is going to assassinate the prince, with his permission.”