by Wilf Jones
‘How do you know this? How can you know?’
‘I do not know. I speculate. But I have had many a conversation with your fellows in misery. The General is a typical Kumite and the tale of the Exiled is written on his face and breathes in his voice. The punishment of the Exiled is easy to understand.’ Bliss paused here and looked steadily into the eyes of his host. ‘What I find more difficult is in trying to understand you. You particularly. While the General is typical you are atypical and I wonder why that is. Why are you so different?’
Bliss watched the question settle on Zaras’ face. It was clear that he had an answer to give. Zaras must have long considered through all the dragging years of his existence every possible question that wit could ask. He seemed to be considering whether he should answer or not.
‘This is a strange evening, Uh Bib. Perhaps it is time to talk. In Kyzylkum we have all the time there could be for such considerations and yet we have little desire for philosophy or psychology.’
‘Psychology?’
‘An old word. It relates to the study of the mind. An ancient word in fact. And there is your answer: I am different because of what I was before The Choosing. You see, I am very old.’
‘Strange to talk about being old when each of the Exiled have endured for some eight thousand years.’
‘I was born in the fourth age of this world.’
Bliss opened his mouth to speak but then thought better of it.
‘You scarcely believe there was a fourth age.’
‘Intellectually I must. Given all I have seen and all I have read. But my mind reels at the thought that mankind has lived so long. It is almost impossible to believe that one man—’
‘Here I am. And, this may discomfort you further, I am aware that I may not be the oldest. The Blood Rite was given in the Age of the Oath.’
Bliss was indeed discomforted by the whole notion. ‘The Age of the Oath? The book makes that the second age of the world. To have memory that reaches so far must be… I don’t know: godlike?’
‘I am no God, just a man. I may seem to be immortal but I’m not. I have no great power. My memory does claw back through the ages but it is a feeble thing. There is much in my mind that remains from my early life, a little from the years between, and many scenes from more recent times but in all of this it is only the critical moments that survive. And most likely not all of those. I remember nothing of my daily life, the names of friends and enemies are lost to me, days of pleasure, days of loss all impossible to recall. My memory is a random collection of sudden illuminations in a world of darkness, the stilled life revealed by the lightning flash. Do not ask me to explain my life to you: too much has gone and there is little order to what is left.’
Bliss was fascinated. It had been a long time since an idea had so completely enthralled him. He needed to know more.
‘Can you remember, at least, how it all began? What you were—’
‘Before I became this? And how it changed? There are scenes, pictures of those times. I have never spoken of this. I am not sure I should.’
Bliss shrugged. ‘What harm could it do?’
‘Reviving memories may possibly revive the feelings too. But as you say, where is the harm in that?
‘It started,’ he said, ‘with sex. I enjoyed sex with young girls. Very young girls. When was this? I wish I could remember the numbers we had for the years then but the phrase in my head is ‘after the war.’ I was an immigrant in a big city. My parents had a shop in somewhere called Green Lanes – though I don’t remember trees and gardens. Some of the pictures of this time are vivid still – I think we must have sold vegetables and fruit, there were cars for the first time in my life – a kind of carriage – and busses, though that may have been later, red busses. Perhaps it is all so vivid because this was before my life changed. Or perhaps it’s because this was when my life changed.
‘You see I met other people who shared my interests. We had a society and took it in turns to provide the entertainment. That was easy enough: there were lots of poor children, fathers dead or damaged by the war, lots of runaways to choose from. I was really very cruel to them. One night one of the men at the club asked if I would like to meet some other friends of his – I seemed to be the right sort for them. I didn’t know then what he meant by that, but somehow I knew I would like what he had to offer.
‘It was the Blood Rite. They were old, some of them, very old. I remember that one claimed to have been a general of Xerxes’ Immortals. That will mean nothing to you but I was keen on the history of our people and Xerxes was one of ours. There were all sorts of men and women involved though, from many countries and races, not all of them interested in the sex but all blessed with the Blood of the God and all needing young blood to keep them fresh. I remember the Rite, I remember the feel of the Blood as it worked its way through my veins. And the fire of my first treatment – Uh Bib, it is addictive. Once tried you must have it again and again. Nothing to do with the need to thin the tar in my veins. Believe me, after the Rite there is nothing quite like young blood.’
Doctor Bliss, the squeamish Doctor Bliss, sat quietly through this exposition. His face, he hoped, was impassive but the answer he had sought so eagerly was more than he wanted to hear.
‘I am sure you’re right,’ he said, ‘But now, enough of the unpleasantries, it is time we got down to business. And there is that spell to teach you.’
Zaras glanced sharply at Bliss. A sudden eagerness transformed his features. ‘Yes the spell. A new body! Perhaps I might after all. I could experience pure, untouched flesh and blood. Just like the first time.’
‘The idea no longer scares you?’
‘Fear never was the strongest part of me.’
Doctor Bliss had little doubt what was.
Shortly after Uh Bib had left him Zaras put on his mask and donned a dark hooded cloak. The blood of the spider woman was running in him now and his body was full of vigour for the first time in many days. His mind was full of memory. The memories drove him out of the house and onto the streets.
It was just midnight as he reached the more lively parts of the city. In many towns of this world midnight squares were deserted spaces but here at the heart of Gothery the lights were burning in taverns and halls, voices were raised in song, jest and good cheer, and men and women in various states of excitement filled the streets. Many visitors to the city were amazed and even appalled by such behaviour. They couldn’t understand how anyone would be happy to work so late, party even later and rarely get out of their beds before noon. Many visitors didn’t bother trying to understand and simply came to the city to participate. Zaras, refreshed, revelled in the atmosphere at least, even if real participation was not a possibility.
He liked to watch them: the fire of life burning in their faces, the fierce laughter of youth and vitality and the tease of lust shining in their eyes. He liked to watch the couples with their bodies up close to each other and hands wandering. Tonight the memory of lust made him ache.
Two girls stepped out of a tavern on the other side of the street, giggling extensively. Zaras stood still and was pleased to see them turn in his direction. They had linked arms the better to chat head to head and also the better to walk without stumbling. He could see that their faces were flushed with the heat and the drink and the possibilities of the night ahead. Lovely young women dressed to attract, blouses daringly unbuttoned to reveal something of the soft swell of their breasts. As they passed him by it was clear they knew he was watching. There was suppressed laughter as they continued on their way. Zaras was unconcerned. He was busy trying to imagine his hands on those breasts, his knees pushing their legs apart, first one and then the other, he tried to imagine their giggles turned to squeals of protest.
It didn’t work. Nothing stirred. He knew that nothing would work as long as he lived in
this failing body. The thought of it made him so angry that he strode off down the street so quickly and so aggressively that others had to step out of his way. He turned a corner and then stopped in his tracks. He heard the woman speak and the man laugh but Zaras had eyes only for the girl. Just up ahead they walked, a family group of mother and father and sleepy daughter, returning late perhaps from a dinner party or maybe the theatre. The girl with long blond hair and a very pretty dress was maybe ten years old.
A shudder ran through him, or perhaps it was an imagined shudder, perhaps it was only in his mind, but she looked so beautiful, so innocent and so vulnerable. There were thoughts in his head now that had not surfaced for thousands of years, brought back to him tonight because of the conversation with Uh Bib and the glimmer of a little girl’s hair under the streetlights. He watched, transfixed, and was utterly bereft when the family reached a front door, the father turned a key and the child was ushered inside into the safety of their home. He was so affected by this vision and by memories of the past that he didn’t know what to do, and so he did nothing but stand still and stare at the door.
After some time he came back to himself enough to look around him. This street was now quiet with only a few people visible and some way off. He took the time to survey the houses and gardens more carefully than he had before and now he noticed that from the main pavements on either side of the street many smaller paths led off down small alleyways between the houses. There was an alley next to the little girl’s house, lit only by the dim light from one of the windows. When he was sure that no one was watching he slipped down the alleyway and disappeared into the darkness.
SHOPPING
Fletton-on-Marsh 3057.7.28
Angren had a headache. He sighed for a youth that was gone: a youth that could be without beer for weeks and still not have a hangover on the next morning after. What had he done to feel so bad? It was probably the very serious drinking competition that started shortly after Seama had gone to bed. Angren, Bibron and the two sailors all drank well, all four easily getting into double figures; Garaid, already drunk from too much wine over dinner, made a valiant if foolhardy attempt at a seventh pint but lost his way before he reached the bottom of the glass; Sigrid refused any suggestion of beer but managed an extraordinary and potent range of spirits and port. ‘Berta was the clear winner. She drank faster and longer than anyone and after sixteen pints the others stopped counting and conceded victory. They became rowdy as the night wore on. It was inevitable. This was their first chance to relax fully after their ordeal, a chance to celebrate being alive and a chance to forget if only for a little while that others were not. Bibron’s prodigious memory for rude, crude songs and a determination to sing them came into play towards the end of the competition and was, no doubt, appreciated by his companions. It was the singing that at last provoked some response. De Vere, on behalf of the Landlord and all the other residents, and several neighbours, was sent in to ask politely if they would please, please just shut up and go to bed. Angren seemed to recall an attempt to confiscate the remaining booze. Brave man. He wondered whether the attempt had succeeded. He wondered because, for the life of him, he couldn’t seem to recall anything else.
‘I hope Seama has something for bad heads,’ he said, speaking aloud to himself to see if he still had the power of speech.
‘Even if I have I don’t think you deserve any.’ Seama was standing by the open window. ‘You all behaved abominably last night. Particularly you. I’m amazed at Terrance’s patience. However, if you promise to get up and get washed and make your peace with Mr. Severan, I might feel more disposed to helping you.’
‘What did I do?’
‘Nothing that a mop and bucket couldn’t cure, but not very pleasant all the same.’
‘Oh.’
‘Well don’t dawdle. We have a lot to do this morning. It’s market day, don’t forget.’
The market was just outside the front door of the hotel, its multi-coloured awnings enlivening the dusty square and filling it with folk from miles around. The noise of nearly a thousand voices in contention or agreement or shouting words of greeting reverberated between the mute houses whose wide-open windows looked on amazed. Seama’s party plunged into the fray with De Vere leading.
‘Where to, Mr. De Vere?’ asked Angren. He seemed much recovered after Seama’s medicine and Terrance was pleased to note that he was apparently quite prepared to be polite and friendly. Probably delighted to be spending someone else’s money.
‘Does it matter?’ he replied, ‘I had thought we might wander and buy whatever seems necessary. While you were still sleeping I made a number of deals and the major purchases are completed. We have horses and saddlery, provisions and packs. In fact all you have to do is buy clothes.’
‘And weapons.’
‘I suppose so. Now look, I don’t want to sound stingy but really I do think you ought to be careful with my money. We are not poor but our purses are only so big.’ Terrance’s face wore a worried frown as he made appraisal of this motley crew he led. After last night he could hardly expect them to exercise any form of restraint. Angren especially: there was a look in the man’s eyes as he said the word ‘weapons’ that spoke of obsession. He hoped Seama would be able to control them. Clutching his already lightened purses more tightly than was necessary, he stood aside to allow them a clear run at the stalls.
‘Don’t worry, Terrance,’ said Seama as he passed, ‘Poverty is a salutary experience and as such, one to be relished.’
‘This expedition won’t be a total waste then. I’m so pleased.’
Any qualms about spending De Vere’s money if they had ever surfaced were quickly and irrefloatably sunk but that didn’t mean the buying was undisciplined. All experienced campaigners, wary of excess baggage, the company intended extravagance of quality rather than quantity – they didn’t buy much but they bought the best they could find. The strange thing was that although everyone found more or less what they wanted the quality they looked for was not much on show. The clothes available were, in general, poorly made of poor material. And this was strange because in the normal course of events Gotherian markets and merchandise were held to be the best throughout the continent of Asteranor and beyond. Pragmatism ruled of course and apparel was bought, but not one of them was satisfied. The atmosphere in the market was poor too. All around them Flettonites and visitors alike were expressing their disapproval of ‘uneven colour’, ‘shoddy cloth’, ‘slack finishing’, some of them quite vigorously. Nearby, in an area of stalls selling pots and pans, a scuffle developed between an over vocal customer and an irritable marketeer. Bystanders, improperly, egged them on and the stallholder swore at them. This incident aside most vendors rode out the abusive comments with a practised calm, insisting they had simply bought the best available to them back at the Stralli market and from the manufactories of Slaney. If folk didn’t like what they saw no one was forcing them to buy it. Outraged locals took the implied advice to heart and took their purses home early. The Fletton constable charged the scufflers with affray and took them off to see the magistrate.
Terrance found it all unsettling: the unease, the ill-made goods, the fractious behaviour. Everywhere he travelled in Gothery it was the same and getting worse by the day. Malcontent seemed to multiply while order retreated. Seama’s arrival offered some hope at least of getting to the root of the problem but whatever they decided to do about it, Terrance had the very strong feeling that they ought to do it soon. Before it was too late.
Entering a side street, off the main square, the company was confronted by a sprawling blue and white striped tent taking up most of the thoroughfare. A small table at the open flap displayed in gruesome isolation a spiked ball of steel on a chain and handle. For effect the spikes had been painted red as though bloodied from battle. Above the entrance hung a board carrying the legend ‘Weapons for Sale’ also in the same
lurid red.
‘There you are Angren,’ said Bibron, ‘I reckon that’ll do you, wunnit? Angren? Now where the heck’s he gone?’
Angren had scuttled back around the corner as soon as he saw the familiar blue and white stripes. They found him peeking out as he hid behind a table of kitchenware. Terrance forgot his worries and chuckled.
‘What on earth is the matter, dear chap?’ he asked, delighted to see the hero of Tumboll cowering behind a pile of copper pots. ‘Something worrying you?’
‘That canvas, blue and white, I’d know it anywhere: it’s Rixbur. I don’t know how he got here so quick but I can’t let him see me or he’ll call up the constables.’
There were several blank or curious faces around him and so Angren explained for the ignorant the full history of his dealings with the sword-seller. They all had to agree that the last thing they needed was for someone to start asking tricky questions.
‘Hang on a second,’ said Garaid, ‘If you threw away his gear he couldn’t possibly have had time to set up again, never mind get himself to Fletton in time to meet us.’
‘Don’t know whether he could or couldn’t Garra but I’m telling you, that’s his canvas!’
Terrance took pity on him. ‘Never you mind, Angren. You stay here. Garaid will look after you while we find out about the big bad tent.’
Angren glared but Terrance, now feeling a lot happier than before, smiled back pleasantly: ‘We’ll get you a knife or something, shall we?’
Ten minutes later Bibron came back to fetch them. Terrance actually wanted him to come and choose a weapon for himself.
‘But what about Rixbur?’
Bibron explained: the tent was indeed Rixbur’s but he’d sold his canvas to the present owner as soon as he had arrived in Banya’s Harbour, intending to acquire another on leaving Riverport. Obviously Angren hadn’t been paying attention on the journey. Riverport had permanent stalls made of wood, or stone warehouses for hire and the use of tents was discouraged. It would be needlessly expensive to ship the tent to Pars when a sale in Gothery and the saving on portage would easily cover the cost of new gear. This weapon dealer in Fletton knew Rixbur quite well in fact but unsurprisingly was in no way a friend – in fact he spat when the name was aired.