The Unweaving

by D. P. Prior

“Know what that tastes like, do you?” Shadrak said.

  “No idea, to be honest, but I’m sure the lassie here could help us out.”

  “Shhh,” she said. “I’m trying to concentrate. Just wait your turn, and I’ll be right with you.”

  Nameless pivoted the great helm left and right then shrugged. “This is our turn.”

  The clerk sighed and tutted, stamped another piece of paper, and looked up. A change instantly came over her face, as if she’d just pulled on a mask. Suddenly, she was bright-eyed and giving them a broad, white smile. “Gentlemen,” she said, “are you visiting or returning home?”

  “Visiting,” Shader said. “We have business—”

  “Welcome to New Jerusalem. Please remove your weapons and place them on the desk for cataloguing, and I’ll need you to empty your pockets.”

  She raised an eyebrow at Shader’s Liber when he pulled it out, checked the title page, and sniffed. “Just the one sword, sir?”

  “Just the one.”

  “And you, sir,” she said to Nameless. “Just the axe?”

  “Only weapon I’d care to show in public, lassie.”

  She shook her head, as if she heard that one all the time.

  “What’s this?”

  “Prayer cord,” Shader said, starting to untie it from his belt.

  “Might want to keep that hidden, sir.”

  Shader looked to her for an explanation as he removed it and stuffed it in a pocket, but none was forthcoming.

  “Doors are open dawn, zenith, and dusk, unless you’re with the guilds or the senate, which I think we can assume you’re not. Any questions?”

  “So, we ain’t free to come and go as we please?” Shadrak asked.

  “Price we pay for our freedom,” the woman said.

  “Freedom from what?” Shader asked.

  The woman glanced to the right, where scores of guards were filing in and taking up posts around the hall. One of the soldiers caught her eye and started toward them but stopped when she held up a hand.

  “In our city, you follow our rules, understood?” She shook her head, rolled her eyes, and muttered something under her breath.

  “Right you are, lassie,” Nameless said, snatching up his axe. “Now, will you want to see my weapon on the way out?”

  She didn’t even bat an eyelid. “It’s what you bring in that concerns me.”

  “Aye,” Nameless said, hefting his axe to his shoulder. “Big’n like this is bound to be a concern.”

  Past the desk, the hall was dark and devoid of furnishings. The ceiling crystals cast no light, and heavy cobwebs hung like drapes. Four signs marked the exits: ‘Visitors’, ‘Residents’, ‘Guilds’, and ‘Private’. A guard stepped from the shadows to usher them into a featureless gray corridor that took them to a squat chamber. Barred windows looked out onto a gloamy street. A couple of soldiers with crossbows watched from each. Between the windows, a massive oak door was fastened shut by three thick bolts. A man in a wrinkled toga stood to the side of it next to a waist-high table, upon which were stacks of booklets and papers.

  “Welcome, friends. Welcome to New Jerusalem, bastion of the free and first city of Malkuth. My name is Lawson, your greeter today. Is this your first visit? Good, well, then you’ll need one of our exquisite street maps and a guide book, which details places of interest such as the Capitol, the Old Mint, our incomparable restaurant strip, the…”

  Shader was distracted by Shadrak sidling up to the table behind the man and pocketing a map.

  “… Cotze’s Foundry, the Raymark Brewery—”

  “Let me see,” Nameless said, snatching the map from the greeter’s hand. “How much?”

  “We have a special discount this week only. A denarius for the book, half that for the map; but if you take both, we’ll work something out.”

  “Denarius?” Shader said. They had denarii here? After the Aeternam—Latin—he shouldn’t have been surprised.

  “A lot of time and preparation went into the design, sir. I hardly think it’s too much to—”

  Nameless withdrew his purse and fished out a couple of silvers. “Just the map, laddie.”

  Shadrak rolled his eyes and shook his head.

  “Two sistercii,” Lawson said. “That’ll do nicely. Thank you, sir. Have a great day. Uh, guards, would you be so kind…”

  One of the soldiers sighed and set about pulling back the bolts so that he could open the door.

  “Once again, welcome to our city,” Lawson said.

  Outside in the street, it could have been night, so dark were the shadows thrown by the Cyclopean Walls. Glowing crystals suspended from tall posts shed dirty yellow light in swaths upon market stalls bustling with activity. The bitter aroma of freshly brewed coffee hung heavy in the air, and a brief gust of wind brought a whiff of pipe smoke to Shader’s nostrils. It made him think of Aristodeus, and that led to thoughts of Rhiannon. He was surprised, and not a little guilty, to realize he was relieved at her absence. Whatever changes had come over her since Gaston, since Sammy, didn’t sit well with him. But that wasn’t all. Something wasn’t right about Callixus’s black sword, and the way she clung to it like a drug.

  Shadrak slipped in among the crowd and disappeared.

  “There he goes again,” Nameless said. “Slippery little shogger, that one.”

  Something tugged at Shader’s coat. Quick as a thought, he slapped a hand down over his pocket.

  “Sorry, guv,” a stoat-faced man said. He stank of piss, and his clothes were threadbare and stained. “Missed my footing.”

  Nameless took a step toward him, and the man slunk back into the throng.

  “Just like the Sanguis Terrae wharfs,” he said. “Pickpockets, waghalters, and rutterkins galore. The gnome should be in his element.”

  “Gnome?” Isn’t that what Rhiannon called Shadrak? The poison gnome? She’d been joking, but with Nameless, it was hard to tell.

  “Yes, you know, our shifty little homunculus. Miners call them deep gnomes, though you wouldn’t want to say that to their face. Did I mention my pa was a min… Well, shog me, I remember his name. Droom. Droom and Yyalla—that’s my ma. Only…”

  “What?” Shader said. “Only what?”

  Nameless shook the great helm from side to side. “Family name’s missing, like they never had it. It’s gotta be in here somewhere.” He slapped the helm. “I don’t mind them taking my name, but not my family’s. Just wait till I get my hands on that shogging philosopher.”

  “Have a look at that map you bought,” Shader said, “then you’ll get your opportunity a whole lot faster.”

  Nameless unfolded the map and tried scanning it through the eye-slit before giving up and handing it to Shader. “Canny old goat, that Aristodeus. Knows full well I need him to feed me, so there’s no chance I’ll get to wring his scrawny neck anytime soon.”

  “That’s Aristodeus for you,” Shader said. “Always one step ahead.”

  “Least if there’s a turd on the ground, he’ll be the first to tread in it. Shog, that’d do me the world of good.”

  The map divided the city into dozens of squares, each of which was intersected by straight roads forming a perfect grid. These were the main thoroughfares, as far as Shader could see, but in reality there were countless other tributaries, cul-de-sacs and blind alleys they passed that the map didn’t show. The Academy was on the cusp of a quadrant north-east of their current location. Shader glanced up, catching sight of the smoking tower they’d seen from outside. He looked back at the map and found it marked Cotze’s Foundry, and it appeared to be only a couple of blocks from their destination.

  They set out onto the high street and followed it north through the shaded market stalls, making their way around the scattered pavement tables and chairs in front of a bewildering array of eateries. The smell of roasted meat and garlic set Shader’s stomach grumbling. Nameless muttered something and picked up the pace. Poor dwarf hadn’t had anything to eat or drink since they’
d left Arx Gravis, and Ain only knew when he’d eaten before that. Mind you, the squirrels Shadrak had shot hadn’t exactly sated Shader’s appetite. He’d have given his right arm for a hot stew and a hunk of fresh-cooked bread.

  He trailed Nameless east down a side street labeled EW 41st. They must have been at the rear of yet more restaurants. Crates were stacked outside weatherbeaten doors, and here and there refuse spilled from overturned cans. There was something reassuringly familiar about the rats scampering through the waste. For all its size and grandeur, New Jerusalem was just the same as any other large city.

  They turned north onto NS 20th and left the shadows cast by the Cyclopean Walls. Shader had to blink against the dazzling sunlight reflecting from the flagstones. The temperature went from cool and refreshing to a mugginess like that of Sarum, and suddenly the stench of rotting food became overbearing. The further they went, the scarcer the people became, until they were walking through a ghost town with only their echoing footfalls for company.

  In his hurry to get out of the sweltering heat and the rank smell, Shader chanced a right turn into a narrow alley. Iron staircases ran down the backs of tall, dilapidated houses. These clearly hadn’t been built by the dwarves. If anything, they were of more recent construction, but it seemed likely they’d crumble into dust long before the dwarven stonework that formed much of the rest of the city. The shade was welcome, though, and light at the far end of the alley showed it connected to another main street. They’d gone barely twenty yards when three dark figures stepped from an alcove. One of them snapped his fingers, producing a tongue of flame, which he used to light a cigarette. The other two raised crossbows.

  “Oh good,” Nameless said. “This is what I get up in the morning for.”

  In spite of his words, the dwarf remained still and relaxed, his axe slung casually over his shoulder.

  Shader’s hand hovered above the hilt of his gladius. It would do no good from this distance. In the time it took to cross the thirty or so feet between them, he’d be staring blankly up at the sky with a quarrel jutting from his chest.

  “Let me guess,” the smoking man said. “You got lost and just happened to wander into our territory? No, don’t tell me: You’re a pair of those underground holies come looking for converts. Am I close? No? Hows about you’re a couple of Night Hawks wanting to jump ship now there’s a new king on the dung-pile? See, thing is, no one comes down here less they’s really stupid or they got business with—”

  In one smooth motion, a shadow dropped down behind the trio, rolled left, lunged right, and the two crossbowmen crumpled into heaps.

  “Thing is,” Shadrak said, ramming a punch dagger into the smoking man’s kidney, “you got a big gob that’s just about starting to piss me off.”

  The man screamed, and his cigarette dropped to the ground. Shadrak kicked him in the back of the legs, sending him sliding off the dagger onto his knees.

  “Stop!” the man cried through a mouthful of bubbling blood. “Wait!”

  Shadrak whirled in front of him and rammed his elbow into his nose. There was a sickening crunch and a cry like a squealing pig.

  Nameless turned the great helm on Shader. “Give the gnome his due, he’s a tough little runt. Got the makings of a featherweight circle fighter, if you ask me.”

  “That’s enough, Shadrak,” Shader said.

  Shadrak picked up the still-burning cigarette. “Nothing’s enough for these types.” He jabbed the cigarette in the man’s eye, and this time the scream was even more shrill and terrible. “Show ’em one jot of mercy, and they’ll take it as weakness.” He burned the other eye and stood back to watch the man thrashing and whimpering on the ground.

  Shader knew he should do something but couldn’t move. Partly, it was disbelief, not only that Shadrak had dispatched the three so easily, but that it was possible for someone to delight in such cruelty. Nameless was rooted to the spot, but he still seemed relaxed. Maybe he was enjoying the spectacle as much as the assassin.

  The thrashing subsided, and the man curled himself into a fetal ball. Shadrak bent over him and punched the dagger repeatedly into his skull. There was a grunt, a few twitches, and then nothing.

  “Shogging journeymen,” Shadrak said. “Hate the scuts.” He wiped his dagger on the man’s clothes and straightened up. “Place ain’t so bad,” he said. He threw Shader a paper-wrapped package. “Good food, lame city watch, and now what sounds like rival guilds ripe for the picking. Makes me want to set up shop.”

  The package contained a hunk of fresh bread and a slab of cheese. Shader glanced guiltily at Nameless and then tore into it.

  “Sorry, mate,” Shadrak said to the dwarf. “Had a haunch of lamb earmarked for you, and a bottle of wine, but then I remembered…”

  Nameless growled.

  By the time they reached the main street, Shader had wolfed down his bread and cheese and was feeling better for it. He shielded his eyes against the glare of the suns as they emerged from the alleyway into a bustling shopping district, loud with the clatter of carts and the clip-clop of horses. There seemed to be an unwritten rule that the shabbily dressed and grimy lacklusters stuck to the gutters, while the center of the street was taken over by those clearly with a purpose of one sort or another: merchants, well-dressed ladies, toga-clad officials, and patrols of soldiers in the kilts, breastplates, and galeas they’d seen at the barbican.

  They tagged along behind a man in a wide-brimmed hat and drab gray robe. He was handing out slips of paper to anyone who’d meet his eyes, weaving his way in and out of the central throng. As they passed a pavement restaurant sheltered by an awning, the man went from table to table leaving his slips for the diners. Some pocketed them surreptitiously, but others shook their heads or snapped their fingers at the waiters.

  When they came out the other side of the awning, the man was waiting. He looked through narrowed eyes at Shadrak and Nameless then clasped Shader’s hand and gave a half-smile. He turned away and entered the open door of a three-storey house nestled between two shops. A balding man peered around the jamb, checked the street both ways, then shut the door.

  Shader held the slip of paper he’d been left between his thumb and forefinger. There was a drawing on one side of a bird stabbing itself in the breast with its beak. On the reverse was written, O Oriens, splendor lucis aeternae, et sol iustitiae: veni et illumina sedentes in tenebris, et umbra mortis.

  “What’s that he gave you?” Nameless said.

  Shader passed it to him, but Nameless shook his head and handed it back.

  The language, the imagery, reminded Shader of certain passages in the Liber. “O Dayspring,” he translated for Nameless. “Brightness of the everlasting light, Sun of Justice, come to give light to them that sit in darkness and in the shadow of death.” Sun of Justice was one of the titles the Templum gave to Nous. Was it possible the Nousian Theocracy’s influence was felt even on distant Aethir? Or was this something else?

  “Sort of thing Thumil used to spout,” Nameless said, “when he was drowning in his own vomit in Rud Cairy’s mead hall.”

  “Scripture?” Shader asked.

  “You don’t want to hear what I call it,” Nameless said.

  Shader eyed the door, half-inclined to go and knock, half-aware he had other more important matters to attend to. He flicked a look to the skies to satisfy himself the mauve wasn’t getting any closer. He looked back at the house and stepped toward it. Surely it wouldn’t make much diff—

  “Tavern!” Nameless cried, setting off at a staggered run. He pulled up sharp and slapped the side of his helm. “Shog, shog, and double shog. I forgot again!”

  Shadrak was on him like a shadow. “Outfitters,” he said, pointing at the clothes store opposite. “My cloak, remember?”

  “Ah, laddie,” Nameless said. “You’ve a fine memory on you. Here, hold this.” He handed Shadrak his axe, ambled over to the store, and went inside.

  Shader’s gaze returned to the townhouse, but the
moment had passed. Maybe the distraction was Nous’s way of telling him to get on with what they’d come here to do, before it was too late.

  Nameless returned a few minutes later with a sky-blue cape trimmed with gold, and a hessian knapsack.

  “You’re having a laugh,” Shadrak said, snatching the cape from him.

  “Thought it was rather fetching, laddie. It has a hood. All we need now’s a tinkling bell and you’d earn a pretty penny as a prancing pixie.”

  Shadrak stormed into the shop with the cape. Nameless chuckled and pulled out the concealer cloak so he could stuff it into the knapsack. Shadrak eventually came out, his pale cheeks flushed scarlet. He was fastening a black cloak around his neck as he approached.

  “Now why was that so hard?” he said, accepting the knapsack from Nameless.

  “Well, I just thought—”

  “Well don’t.”

  “It’ll draw the heat,” Nameless muttered at Shadrak’s retreating back. “And you still owe me a pint. Two, if you count the bag. I’m keeping a tally.”

  Shadrak held up his middle finger and kept walking.

  The street opened onto a crowded plaza, which was dominated by a three-tiered fountain sending up sparkling arcs of crystal-clear water. Sunshades had been set up all around the perimeter, where market stalls were bustling with trade and thick with the smells of fish, roasting meat, and ale.

  Nameless turned the great helm to face a beer tent jostling with raucous patrons clutching frothing tankards as big as buckets.

  “Oh, look,” Shadrak said, an impish grin crossing his face. “I’m right parched, I am. Reckon I might grab myself one of those.”

  “You do that, laddie,” Nameless said. “I would join you, but I never touch the stuff these days.”

  Shader studied the map and lifted his eyes to the broad avenue leaving the plaza on the far side. “Come on. It’s just off that road.”

  “Look,” Shadrak said. “Another one of them weirdoes handing out slips.”

  “More than one,” Nameless said, pointing out a hooded man weaving in and out of the customers gathered round a stall that sold cheese and olives.