Folding the Sky

-8-

There were many types of people Sorin Kircher didn't care for: people who chewed with their mouths open, for one, or children running on the street who mindlessly jostled into him without stopping to apologize. Most of these people Sorin tolerated, because he had no other choice. And yet there was one type of person he absolutely couldn't stand: liars.

The man cowering before him was a liar. Sorin was sure of it. Though Sorin couldn't remember his name—it was some boring one that started with a B, if he recalled correctly—he knew the man's type well enough. This was the sort who wore his wealth as a suit of armor, whose only priorities were collecting land and commodities until there was none left for anyone else, who did not care whom he stepped on so long as he reached the top.

Except that this time he had stepped on a loose stone, and even as he scrambled for his footing, he was already falling.

"I don't understand," the man whimpered. He was clutched up against his bedpost, a silver watch on his wrist glinting in the faded moonlight that shot through the stained glass window. The room around them bled opulence like an aroma. A shimmering crystal chandelier dangled from the ceiling, an array of expensive, ornately-bottled colognes decorating the antique nightstand. Shadows of hand-tailored suits and polished shoes peeked out from the imported wardrobe. What interested Sorin the most, however, was the tapestry that hung by the bed, a lavish collage of red and gold and black.

"I don't understand!" the man whimpered again. "How did you get in here—the guards—"

"Are rather incompetent," said Sorin, fussing with something at his belt. "In fact, I'd tell you to fire them all and hire new ones, but that won't be necessary."

"What?" The word was mostly a gasp.

A small clink interrupted the hush of the room as Sorin drew a knife, sharp and clean, from its sheath at his hip. "Because there's no point in guarding a dead man."

The man opened his mouth to shriek, but Sorin had already slammed his hand over it. "Shh," he said, resting the tip of the blade against the man's neck, so that his pulse beat fast and hard against it. "Don't be rude. People are trying to sleep, you know."

A muffled groan, and then quiet.

"That's better," Sorin said. "Now, I won't have to kill you if you tell me about that tapestry on your wall. So if I take my hand off your mouth, will you do that for me?"

The man, staring like a frightened rodent into Sorin's single-lidded eyes, nodded his head. Sorin plastered on a devilish grin, lowering his hand.

"I bought it two years ago," the man started, his voice quivering and uneven, as if he was seconds away from tears. It wasn't the first time Sorin had brought someone to that point. "When the mansion was still being built. I needed something original, and someone told me his pieces were like no other. So I sought him out."

"Two years ago," Sorin repeated with a scowl. A lot of help that was. "So he was here then, in Sinje?"

The man nodded. "Yes. But it was difficult to find him. There was no address or telephone address on file, anywhere. One of his assistants had to take me to him personally."

"Where was he staying?"

The man swallowed, cutting his eyes away.

Sorin dug the knife in, his teeth gritting. Red pooled against the blade. "Are you really going to make me repeat myself?"

"I don't remember exactly," murmured the man. "It was an old office building, maybe. Here in the central district. Right on the river somewhere."

Sorin paused. The man was breathing hard, a wave of sardine-scented breath hitting Sorin in the face every time he exhaled, and yet a strange wave of calm washed over him, like his mind was an open landscape.