The woman stared at him. The whites of her eyes were yellow and blood-shot, her pupils mismatched. One hugely dilated, the other a pinprick of black. Marith stared back at her. Oh gods. Oh gods. So close. Please. He fumbled in the purse Tobias had given him and produced a gold talent.
‘Hatha?’ Hard to speak, he was so on edge. ‘You know where to get hatha? Quickly? Now?’
She frowned. Sighed. ‘Nobody. Nobody has hatha. Not for days now. Plague in Chathe, they say. Nobody has it.’ Her hands jerked, rubbing at her face. Fresh blood welled up as the scabs cracked. ‘Nobody.’
No. No, no, no … A void in his mind. Blank dark. No. Oh gods, no. No. Fire in his head, screaming. No. He stared hopelessly at the woman. Kill her, he thought. Kill her. I can’t go on. Not after yesterday. Not any more. Kill her. Make her hurt. It’s not fair … Not fair. Please … Help me …
‘Are you sure? I have gold. I can pay well.’ His voice shook.
She gave him a mournful look, staring at the coin. ‘Nobody has it for any price.’ Then she nodded. ‘But I could get you other things. Fire? Keleth seed?’
Marith almost laughed. Pressed the coin into her hand and then, feeling generous, gave her two more.
‘Fire? Yes. That would be lovely.’ Keleth seeds were utterly boring. But fire … He licked his lips. ‘Now.’
She nodded. ‘Come.’
She could just be going to kill him. But he’d killed a dragon. He’d killed Emit. He’d killed better men than Emit. Could probably handle a young woman barely able to walk. The thought disappeared from his mind as she turned and started down a narrow street. She walked slowly, unsteadily. He danced impatiently behind her, clutching the purse Tobias had given him in shaking hands.
After a short while they came to a little court of buildings, falling over each other and half ruined, with a dank alley running beside them. The woman gestured towards a small low doorway where a man crouched scrabbling in the dirt in a pool of his own piss. She tapped on the door and pushed it open. Marith followed her eagerly, his eyes bright, his whole body shaking now with anticipation and fear and hope and happiness.
Tobias arrived back at the Five Corners around early in the afternoon. Marith and Emit didn’t. It got to late in the afternoon and Tobias began to fret. They should have been back hours ago. It didn’t take that long to buy shirts. He had to meet Skie again, couldn’t show up and tell him he had no idea what had happened to half his squad.
‘Where the bloody hell are they?’ he shouted at Rate and Alxine. ‘They didn’t say anything to you, did they?’
‘Maybe they got lost again,’ said Alxine. ‘Or got in a fight. Or Emit finally snapped and lamped Marith one.’
‘We’d better go out and look for him.’ Tobias stood up wearily. ‘You two, come with me.’ If he left them alone, they’d probably manage to set fire to the building. He composed a message for Skie explaining he’d be delayed and asked the oldest sister, Navala, to send a message boy with it to the Star. All the boy had to say was ‘Will be late, meet at the Star tomorrow morning’, so it was probably pretty safe. Not much else he could do anyway.
They must have been to the tailor’s shop, a parcel of not entirely tasteless clothes having arrived just after midday, so the search started there. The two of them were fairly memorable, especially as Marith turned out to have bought an extremely expensive coat. An apprentice had been taking out some parcels at the time they left and thought he remembered them talking about going for a drink. Tobias almost kicked the wall with rage at this point.
There was a tavern just down the street. The landlady smiled wistfully at the memory of the beautiful boy who’d come in just after opening and bought a very large measure of extremely expensive brandy, as well, most generously in her opinion, as a cup of beer for his servant man. No, she didn’t know where he’d gone, but she very much hoped he’d come back. Tobias did kick the wall then, and almost kicked Alxine too, for good measure.
They wandered the streets vaguely for a while, feeling increasingly lost. After an hour’s searching, Rate was ready to conclude they were dead and give up. Moaning his arm hurt and he was fed up with walking round in circles. ‘They’re probably dead in a ditch somewhere,’ he muttered repeatedly. ‘Or in prison, or run off together to start a new life as travelling musicians. We are not going to bloody find them.’
‘They can’t have just run off,’ Alxine responded each time. ‘Emit wouldn’t do that to us, and Marith …’ But none of them could say what Marith would or wouldn’t do, and each time Alxine would trail off emptily.
Why on earth did I trust him with the money? Tobias kept asking himself. He just seemed so … so … Confident was the wrong word. Trustworthy was entirely and absolutely the wrong word. Frightening. Pitiful. Strange. Sad. Wrong and broken, in ways Tobias couldn’t begin to understand. But he’d given him a bag of gold and sent him off without a backward glance. Things they needed that really couldn’t wait. Could probably trust Marith. Yeah? What had he been thinking? What had he been bloody thinking? It was beginning to get dark, the sun red in the west and twilight drawing in. ‘Let’s go back,’ he said wearily. Gods only knew what he’d tell Skie. The man was going to bloody well flay him alive.
They had almost reached the Street of the South when Alxine grabbed Tobias’s arm and pulled him across the street. Tobias turned and saw a young woman in the midst of a violent argument in the doorway of a shop. ‘What—?’
‘No,’ Alxine said urgently. ‘Listen.’
The woman was hurling abuse at a well-dressed man, who was looking back at her in scornful disbelief. From what Tobias could gather from the jumble of Literan and Pernish, she was trying to buy a dress from the man, who was refusing to even let her enter his shop. Shouting that she had money enough to buy ten of his dresses, never mind one. To prove it, she thrust a talent piece in his face. Given she was currently dressed in rags, the shop-keeper promptly accused her of theft. She shouted even louder, yelling at the top of her voice that she’d been given it as a gift by a beautiful young lord with eyes like storm clouds and hair the colour of dark wine. He’d given her more, in fact, but she’d already spent them. On drink, from the state of her. The shop-keeper burst out laughing. Asked if he’d also had lips as red as roses and a gold-plated cock.
Tobias’s heart sank like a stone.
The shop-keeper finally succeeded in shoving the woman away from him and slamming his door shut. She stood transfixed in the doorway, hurling a stream of incoherent abuse at the dark wood. Finally she sank down onto the cobbles and began to cry. Tobias went over to her.
After a short discussion and the production of a couple of dhol, the woman agreed to show them where she’d taken her beautiful, generous, kind-hearted, charming young lord. They followed her warily, frowning at each other. Not looking particularly good, this. Hands on the hilts of their knives. The woman walked slowly; her voice slurred and stilted, the stress placed on the wrong words, with a rhythm to it like a body jerking on a noose. The skin around her eyes was raw and ragged, patterned with scratches and open sores; she rubbed at them as she walked and blinked constantly, as though the evening dark was blindingly bright. Tobias shuddered as she brushed against him. Made him think of worms and grave soil. Beetles burrowing into rotting flesh.
She led them at last to the mouth of a filthy alleyway. ‘There,’ she said with a hoarse laugh. ‘A beautiful palace for a beautiful boy.’
She turned and headed slowly back into the gathering dark. Living dead, waiting for her heart to give out like her rotted mind and body, something eating her away from the inside. A kindness just to kill her now. Tobias realized suddenly and horribly that the way she itched her face was the same as Marith’s habit of rubbing at his eyes. He and Rate and Alxine stared at the doorway she had indicated. A stream of raw sewage ran across the threshold. A man lay in the sewage, muttering something under his breath, the same meaningless syllables over and over again. There was blood around his mouth. His lips we
re stained black. The woman had been horrible. This was worse. Tobias pushed the door open hesitantly and stepped inside.
It was a wine shop, though poorer and more dishevelled than any place Tobias had ever been in. Very dark, a single windowless room lit by a few lamps that gave off a rancid, fishy smoke. A handful of customers were slumped at dirty tables. A man with a face that was a mass of sores stood behind the bar, laughing mirthlessly at an old woman in a torn dress who twitched and jerked like a beetle on a pin. The air stank of puke and piss and raw alcohol, so strong it made Tobias’s head spin. There were puddles on the floor he tried hard not to tread in. A large rat scuttered past, something hanging from its mouth that might be alive. Fat flies crawling on hands and faces and cups, clustering around eyes and open mouths. No talking. No singing. No arguments. No whores. Not a place where people came to drink, this. A place where people came to die.
Marith was in a corner at the back, the side of his head resting on the table-top. His eyes were open and staring, empty as stones.
Tobias sat down opposite him. Felt sick looking at him.
‘Hello, Marith.’
‘… Tobias …?’ Marith blinked and raised his head, made a strangled sound that might have been a laugh. After several attempts, he managed to sit up. His voice was thick and strange, coming from a long way off, like he was an animal trying to speak. He took a gulp of his drink. ‘Hello … Want to join me?’
‘We’ve been looking for you for hours. Where the fuck have you been?’
‘I’ve been … here.’ Waved his hand vaguely, knocked over his cup. Its contents splashed over the table with a hiss, scorching the wood. Tobias jerked backwards.
‘What in all hells is that?’ Alxine asked in a horrified voice, hastily moving his hands off the table. The liquid was thick and dark and oily, deep red with a glossy sheen. Tobias could swear it was smoking slightly.
‘Firewine,’ said Rate. ‘Blindness-in-a-bottle, it’s sometimes known as. Sort of a cross between an alcoholic drink and the stuff used to poison wells in a siege.’ He looked quite impressed. ‘I’ve never managed more than a couple of cupfuls, myself. And then I was ill for a week.’
Would the boy’s prowess never cease? ‘You were supposed to be with Emit,’ Tobias growled at Marith. ‘Where in the gods’ name is he?’ Entirely pointless. Something of a surprise if the boy had any idea where he was at this particular moment, let alone anyone else. But he had to ask.
‘Emit …’ Marith blinked at him. ‘Emit … he’s … in an alley. Somewhere.’ His eyes flickered for a moment. Something like a smile passed over his face. ‘I can’t remember where.’ He poured himself another drink and carefully set the bottle back down on the table. Alxine flinched as it rocked.
Tobias grabbed Marith’s arm. ‘I think you’ve maybe had about enough now, boy,’ he said, to sniggers from Rate and Alxine. ‘Time to stop, don’t you think?’
Marith’s eyes seemed to clear for a moment. Like he finally understood what Tobias was saying to him. ‘I’ve had nothing like enough. I don’t intend to stop until I’m unconscious.’ His voice was raw with hatred. Pushed Tobias’s hand away, took a long drink. ‘Or dead.’
The last time something like this had happened, it had been Gulius and Alxine, and they’d come fairly peacefully after Tobias had yelled at them enough. There was something else here. Shadows crawled on the walls, like the shadows in Marith’s eyes. The boy looked like a demon. A wraith. A thing undead, steeped in hate and grief. The room was full of pain, soaking into the bones, despair beating around them. Ruin and dust and dark. The drinkers coughed and whimpered, waiting for death.
‘I’m your commanding officer, Marith,’ Tobias said firmly, keeping his voice low. ‘This is an order. We’re leaving. Now.’
Marith’s face went dark. He frowned at Tobias, then laughed and took another drink. ‘No.’
‘You don’t refuse to obey orders, boy. You follow them. Get up.’
Marith laughed again.
‘You’re drunk, you’ve misused Company money entrusted to you, and you’re committing an act of insubordination. That’s a whole world of trouble. Get up. Now.’
Marith picked up the bottle and very carefully topped his cup up to the brim.
‘Get up, boy, or I’ll have Rate and Alxine drag you out of here.’
Marith blinked and smiled and something dark and rotten climbed out from behind his eyes. The background noises in the room faded. A sound from far off like a sword being drawn.
‘No.’
‘This is an order. We leave, now, and tomorrow you’ll be whipped.’
‘I said no.’ Marith raised his cup, drained it, refilled it, drained it again. ‘I am a prince of the line of Amrath the World Conqueror, kin to the dragons and to the Living Gods of Immier and Caltath. In my veins flows the blood of gods and demons from beyond the realms of life and death. My family has ruled over empires the likes of which the world had never known. We have been kings since the land rose from the sea and men first crawled from the mud to do our bidding.’ He bared his teeth, his voice an angry hiss. ‘I do what the hell I like.’
The dramatic effect was spoilt slightly when he slumped sideways and was violently sick all over his lovely new coat.
Chapter Seventeen
Two young men, boys really, stumble down a dark street. One is slim and dark-haired, the other stockier and fair-blond. They are both expensively and elegantly dressed, torchlight flickering on the embroidery of their coats. The dark-haired boy leans heavily on the fair-haired boy’s arm. He might perhaps charitably be described as more than a little drunk.
They stop walking. The dark-haired boy falls over. Lands in a dirty puddle. Doesn’t get up.
‘I can’t walk any more,’ he moans. He crawls forwards a few paces, curls up with his head resting in the muddy water. ‘I told you that stuff would finish me,’ he mutters in a slurred voice.
‘You’ve just got to get used to it. Then you’ll be fine.’ The fair-haired boy sits down beside him and passes him a vicious-looking black glass bottle. The dark-haired boy hesitates, then sits up and drinks.
‘I was. Fine … I’m tired … Can we just stay here for a while?’ He frowns a little, his voice confused. ‘I don’t seem to be able to see any more.’
‘You really should be able to handle it better, you know. What with the divine blood and all.’
The dark-haired boy rolls over, rests his head in the fair-haired boy’s lap. ‘I don’t want to be able to handle it better. I don’t want to have divine blood.’ He sighs as the fair-haired boy begins to stroke his forehead with smooth white hands. ‘I just want … I don’t know what I want. You know what I want. To make everything go away.’
‘Everything?’ The fair-haired boy smiles down at him. Holds the bottle to the dark-haired boy’s lips. ‘This helps, though, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ The dark-haired boy sighs again, drinks again, reaches out to hold the fair-haired boy’s hand. ‘It helps.’
He lies for a while in silence, a sad smile on his face. The fair-haired boy watches him with pale, wide eyes.
‘When I’m king,’ the dark-haired boy says slowly at last, his voice very far away, drifting into sleep, ‘when I’m king, I’ll probably have to stop sleeping in the gutter. Kings very seldom sleep in the gutter, you know.’
The fair-haired boy laughs. ‘Aralbarneth the Good did. Dressed as a beggar.’
A long, possibly thoughtful pause. ‘That was to understand the cares of his people. Not because he was dead drunk.’
‘Well, you’re not likely to end up being known as “the Good” anyway, are you?’
‘I’m not?’
The fair-haired boy strokes his friend’s hair again, smoothing the dark curls, gently touching the flushed face. ‘No.’
The dark-haired boy sits up again, drains the bottle and throws it across the street. It shatters in a shower of glass, spilling dregs of an oily liquid dark as blood. ‘You’re probably right.�
�� He curls himself closer into the fair-haired boy’s lap. ‘It does help. Thank you.’
‘For you, anything,’ the fair-haired boy says. He bends over to kiss the dark-haired boy’s cheek. ‘We can go out again tomorrow, if you like. Other things I can think of, that might help more.’
The dark-haired boy nods, half-asleep. His eyes are red rimmed and impossibly weary. ‘That would be nice,’ he says dreamily, clutching the fair-haired boy’s hand.
The fair-haired boy runs his fingers through the dark-haired boy’s shining curls. ‘Anything,’ he says again.
Chapter Eighteen
I am the High Priestess of Great Tanis the Lord of Living and Dying. The centre and meaning of my life is to kill for the God. For a thousand thousand years, the people of the Sekemleth Empire have offered themselves up to death beneath the knife.
The people of Tarboran built vast tombs to their dead, as high as watchtowers, gilded and carved and fragrant with cedar wood. The money they must have spent, the time they must have laboured! A rich man’s tomb was planned for him from the day he was born. Imagine it, going every day to supervise the construction of your own burial place, taking pride in it as the greatest achievement of your life. Looking forward to dying so that you can be buried and dead. And then the fire came down upon Tarboran, and the tombs were burnt, and all the gold and glory lost. No one remembers their names, now, the tomb builders.
The Court of Broken Knives Page 14