Page 32 of A Skirl of Sorcery
I smiled, patted Tiddles and went on my way.
It was still early,so there was little point finding Thane until later. I knew enough about werewolves to wait until late morning to try to talk to him; in fact, I wasn’t sure if he’d be able to speak coherently until the following day.
Keres was also in no state to talk but I could still learn more about what had happened when her ban sith powers were stolen. If I visited the probable scene of the crime, I’d be bound to locate a few early risers who could be persuaded to chat.
Given that I’d avoided the ban sith community for decades, I’d only passed through Barton Road on my way to somewhere else. I’d certainly never spent any time there, though in a way that wasn’t a bad thing because at least I’d never killed anyone in that neighbourhood. But after hearing Louise’s story, I was wary that the ban siths would recognise what I used to be. That wasn’t reason enough to avoid them though, not if I wanted to help Keres.
Anyone who didn’t know that Barton Road was home to the ban siths would certainly get an inkling as they strolled down it. Death was celebrated, and it was visible in every nook and cranny. Western sensibilities lean towards pretending that death doesn’t happen; I could understand why some would be discomfited by such obvious awareness of life’s one absolute truth, that death was coming for us all, sooner or later.
Funereal black was the colour choice for every front door, window sill and lamppost, and I suspected that if I peered intothe houses I would see black wallpaper. There were plenty of hanging baskets full of flowers, though there were no sunny daffodils or blushing roses on display; they all contained lilies.
I frowned and tapped Tiddles. ‘You see those flowers?’ She nibbled on my ear. ‘As far as you’re concerned, they are poisonous. Stay on my shoulder and stay away from them.’ She chirruped. ‘I mean it,’ I warned her.
We passed a shop selling gravestones and another displaying coffins. On the other side of the street, there was an arresting window display of cremation urns. There was even a store that proudly advertised death powder, a substance that supposedly sent someone to their death through skin-to-skin contact. If you believed that, you’d believe anything because death powder didn’t work; if it did, it would hardly be openly for sale. Its presence did, however, prove that the shop owners here had thought of everything.
If you’d come across a similar scene almost anywhere else in the world, it would have seemed cheesy, like a clichéd film set or a theme park, but instead of feeling like a gratuitous celebration of death Barton Road felt normal.
I couldn’t see any ban siths, though; their work was nocturnal and most of them would be fast asleep. Even so, I hoped to find someone who knew Keres.
‘Good morning.’ I turned my head to see not a ban sith but a robed deacon from the Church of the Masked God.
He was standing in the doorway of a small building with a plaque on it. Having a Masked God office here made sense because they benefited enormously from bequests and legacies; I had no doubt that the church leaders were fans of death.
I smiled. ‘Morning.’
‘You look a little lost. Is there something I can help you with?’ The man knew what he was doing; in matters of impendingdeath – unless you were a doctor or an assassin – the gentler the approach and the softer the sell, the better.
I twitched anxiously. It was only partly an act. ‘Uh…’
His eyes were kind. ‘There are many different reasons why people visit Barton Road. Sometimes it’s morbid curiosity, sometimes it’s to make a purchase.’ He waved a hand at the row of shops behind us. ‘Sometimes it’s because of timing – you look like that is your reason. Either you or someone you know is sick, and you want to know if a ban sith can tell you how long you or they have left in this world.’
It wasn’t what I’d been expecting but I’d roll with it. I giggled nervously. ‘I guess I’m more obvious than I realised.’
As he reached for my hands and gently squeezed them, the faintest brush of magic tickled my skin. It was some sort of reassurance spell designed to help me relax, a mild version that would put me at ease without twisting my mind or my emotions so I couldn’t be annoyed by its use.
‘I use lavender lotion,’ he told me, interpreting my thoughts correctly. ‘Enhanced with a sprinkling of witched St John’s Wort.’ He released my hands. ‘I can assure you that it’s harmless. It will help you. Nothing more, nothing less.’
I believed him – but that might have been because of the effect of the magic.
‘I’m Martin,’ he said, bowing his head. ‘As you might have gathered, I’m not a ban sith though I stay in this community. I know everyone here and they accept me, although I’m here primarily as a church outreach worker.’ He raised his palms. ‘I’m not here to evangelise, I’m here to help.’
Definitely soft sell. ‘I’m looking for a ban sith,’ I admitted. ‘Not for me but for my friend.’ In a sense that was true.
‘Your friend is ill?’
I nodded.
‘Very ill?’
I bit my lip and nodded again.
‘The reason I ask,’ Martin said, ‘is that the ban siths’ power is immense but even the most skilled can only predict death up to five days before the event. They can’t tell a healthy person when they’ll die – they often can’t tell a terminally ill person when they’ll die. A lot of people in Coldstream are scared of what ban siths can do but the truth is that their predictive magic is quite limited.’
‘But they’re drawn to death, aren’t they? They can feel when it’s approaching?’
‘They areoverwhelmedwhen it is approaching,’ he corrected gently. ‘That’s why they shriek. They have no control over the skirl of the ban sith. Think of it like the tide or the moon. When a ban sith spots death, they have to sing.’
I wouldn’t have called a ban sith’s bone-juddering shrieks singing, but each to their own. I twitched again, doing my best to appear nothing more than a cat lady trying to help a friend. ‘Who is the most skilled ban sith? Who should I approach for a … consultation?’
