by Ben Peek
‘My name is Tawain.’ His voice was deep, another body’s voice. ‘I’m here to see Samuel Orlan.’ Entering, the old man smiled and shook the cartographer’s hand firmly. If he was disturbed by the sword Bueralan held, or the soft click of the door being locked behind him, he did not show it. ‘Look at you,’ Tawain said to Orlan. ‘If I didn’t know your hair was black in your forties, I’d swear you hadn’t aged in a decade.’
‘I think I have become more handsome,’ the other said. ‘Which is more than I can say for you.’
‘That’s harsh.’
‘You had hair, once.’
‘Lice.’ He moved awkwardly to the chairs in the room, his cane falling like a heavy third foot. ‘It has been all over the docks for the last month. You avoided that, at least.’
‘It is often said that I am quite lucky.’
He grunted sourly. ‘Not this time.’
‘Oh?’
‘Surely you have heard that the Innocent is here? They say that there is a fleet off the coast of the Fifth Province that is his.’
‘He does not have a fleet,’ Orlan said, mildly. ‘He has one ship.’
Tawain’s grin revealed crooked, discoloured teeth. ‘You’re right, but it’s not the truth of it, it’s the politics of it. That’s where you’re unlucky.’
‘The Queen of Cynama is still the First Queen, is she not?’
‘Yeah, but she grows old, as do we all. Her children grow bolder.’ He paused. ‘Why are you taking off your clothes?’
‘It’s not a new level of our friendship, I assure you.’ Orlan picked up a towel from beside his bed, began to dry his soft, pale chest. ‘I am simply cold. What else is going on?’
‘Be happy. Tomorrow it’ll be nothing but humidity.’ Tawain turned to Bueralan. ‘Whether or not the Innocent is off the coast doesn’t matter. People are leaving Ooila. It’s not a mass exodus yet, but it is enough to be noticed. It’s not just in the Fifth Province, either. It’s all across. There are spies across every dock and port, listening for every desperate whisper. Do you know who you travel with, Samuel?’
Bueralan met the other man’s gaze, but said nothing.
‘He is just a man,’ Orlan said, after a moment. ‘A man without history, or title, or land.’
The old man held his gaze. ‘Is that right?’
‘Yes,’ Bueralan replied. ‘You will remember that, won’t you?’
6.
Heast rode across the stone bridge to Ghaam alone.
It would not be long before the corpses of Menan and his soldiers were found. No matter what Heast thought of Bnid Gaerl, he knew that the man would not ascribe any delay in reporting to a dereliction of duty. When they failed to return, he would dig them up by question and by shovel. Heast had dug up friends, family and soldiers similarly. He suspected that he had had little more than three days to prepare for Gaerl’s response.
Sin’s Hand appeared from the cold lamp-lit dark: a large, sprawling building of discoloured stone decorated by a single red hand above the door. Beneath the sign stood two men: one black and one white, both twice the size of Heast. They acknowledged him with a nod and he gave the guards a weary nod in return before he turned into the narrow alley and let his horse move slowly to the stables at the back of the brothel. An elderly woman sat on a stool rolling a thin cigarette from stained paper. On her left hand she had three fingers, but she held the reins of Heast’s horse tightly as he leant forward and awkwardly swung his good leg over the horse, dismounting. Inside the stable, two children were cleaning stalls and laying down hay. The tired beast was led to them to be unsaddled.
Sin’s Hand was not nearly as quiet, or orderly. As he unlaced the leather ties to his scabbard, a dull thud of noise leaked through the door and collected at the feet of another two imposing men. Heast had just passed his sword to the man on the left when the door opened and the sound burst out. Revealed was a narrow path lit by a series of red candles. Scented smoke lurked in the ceiling. Yet, rather than enter, Heast waited, allowing a tall grey-haired man in expensive greens and reds to pass him.
‘Captain Heast,’ said the man, remaining in the door. He was a white man, his face verging on longness, as if a particularly dour expression had lengthened it over the years. ‘It has been some time since I last saw you. You have been busy, if I am to believe the rumours.’
Lian Alahn. ‘I am sure the Traders’ Union realizes that Muriel Wagan has people to look after,’ Heast said, hiding his surprise.
‘Indeed it does.’ He stepped out. Behind him, a young man, dark-haired and wearing light leather armour, followed. One of Sin’s guards handed a long straight sword to the younger man. An expensive blade, Heast noted. Alahn said, ‘I tried to reach you when I returned to Yeflam a few months ago. I had heard you were looking for me, but I had no luck finding you. May I enquire what it was about?’
‘It was about your son,’ he said.
The other man nodded. ‘Of course. Please, let us step aside for a moment.’ With Heast beside him, Alahn moved out of earshot of the others, leaving his guard beside the two that Sin’s Hand employed. ‘I had heard that Illaan did not return from Mireea. You have my apologies, Captain. It is unthinkable that my own flesh would fail at his duty.’
Heast – who believed he had seen every way a parent could respond to the loss of a child – was taken aback. ‘He fell, just as many do,’ he said. ‘I thought to tell you how it happened, if it would provide you closure. I do that for all who fall under my command.’
‘That he fell is enough, Captain. Failure is not something I wish to dwell on. However, if you could do me a favour,’ the merchant added, ‘could you pass on a message for me? It is to the girl with whom my son had a relationship. Ayae, I believe her name is. I met her but once, and I am afraid I do not know her last name.’
‘She’s an orphan,’ Heast said, a coldness emerging in his voice. ‘She arrived from Sooia without a family name and I do not believe she intends to purchase one.’
‘Except by marriage.’ If Lian Alahn noticed the change in Heast’s voice, he heard it only as a confirmation of his opinion of Ayae, and nothing more. ‘At any rate, I mention her only because I thought that she might like to visit me, to pay respect at the tomb we have purchased for my son. I do not want her to feel ostracized by our family. After all, if anyone is to blame for Illaan’s death, it is me. It is I who organized his commission under you. I thought it would be good for him. I thought it would give him structure, purpose. I do not blame the girl he stayed for.’
Illaan had been spoilt and arrogant, yet Heast had thought he saw the flicker of something in him: a glimmer that had been trying to escape his father. ‘There was a difficulty between the two of them before he died,’ he said. ‘I believe that will keep her absent from your family.’
‘Yes, I had heard that she was cursed.’
‘I do not use that term myself.’
‘My apologies.’ Alahn smiled. ‘I have heard she has taken up residency with the Keepers.’
Heast did not correct him.
‘Still, if I may impose, Captain?’ he continued, as if, like Heast’s coldness earlier, the silence was not in response to Alahn himself. ‘I would appreciate it if you could pass on the message for me? To let her know I would like to meet her. I have much I would like to discuss with her and I do not want bad blood between us in the future.’
7.
After Lian Alahn left, Heast entered the red-lit smoky hallway of the brothel unarmed. The music was a dull beat as he followed it to a large open room. Thick candles lined the walls and stood on the tables, but did so in a way to cultivate a sense of shadows and anonymity, leaving only the centre stage brightly lit in reds and oranges. There, the band, made up of three different drum kits and an assortment of cellos and wind instruments, let their sound out to an audience who largely ignored it, and whose time was for the women who wandered from shadowed booth to corner in various states of undress, drinks and smiles in hand. At the bar,
the man behind it caught Heast’s eye and pointed up, pointed through the ceiling, to the single room above.
The music followed Heast to the seemingly unguarded door of an office, but it was muffled once he entered. Inside, a long semicircle of a dark couch dominated the centre of the room, facing a thick glass wall that looked out over the stage Heast had passed. Two people were sitting there. The first, a man in his mid-twenties, was the owner of Sin’s Hand, Sinae Al’tor: long and lean and darkly olive-skinned, he sat against the cushion in a mix of black and orange, every inch the well-moneyed, well-made man of illegality he wished to be. A slim, pretty white girl lay against him, her pale blonde hair falling over her shoulders and back, but stopping long before her slim legs and bare, ringed feet. Every inch of her pose and clothing was designed to heighten a sensation of languid sexuality, and did so, until you met her deep, dark-green eyes.
Her feet shifted up for Heast as he eased awkwardly onto the couch. ‘You mind?’ he asked, pointing to the bottle and glasses on the low table before the couch. ‘Unless Lian Alahn drank from it?’
‘Clean glasses,’ Sinae replied. ‘Clean hands?’
‘Are yours clean?’
The girl smiled.
‘You want some?’ Heast reached for the whisky. Beneath it were two overturned papers.
She shook her head, but Sinae nodded. ‘If I had known you were coming tonight,’ he said, ‘I would have made sure you were here for my fascinating conversation with Mister Alahn.’
‘I’ve spoken with him enough.’
‘He does create a certain disgust, doesn’t he?’ He took the glass that Heast pushed to him. ‘I should add that he told me that Bnid Gaerl’s men are looking for you. I already knew, of course. By your clean hands, I see that you have avoided them.’
The Captain of the Ghosts – he would own the insult, as he knew Muriel would – raised his glass in salute. Five years ago, Sinae had been working in a brothel in Mireea. A thin strip of a cheap prostitute, he had sold pieces of information to Heast for small amounts of gold, but they had not had a real conversation until after Sinae was found, bruised and beaten, in the house of a wealthy man. He had been chained to the wall and used for close to a month. The young Sinae had strangled the man one night a week before, but it wasn’t until the smell of the merchant’s corpse worked its way out that the neighbours had thought to investigate. Heast had not given Sinae much consideration after that, but in the months he had spent recovering, the young man had come to Muriel Wagan’s interest. She had found an intelligent man, lost and without direction.
‘Did Alahn ask for anything for that?’ Heast asked. ‘Or did he just provide it as a favour before he asked if you could take a message to Muriel?’
Sinae’s smile was lazy. ‘It was rather obvious.’
‘He’s not very subtle.’ When Sinae had recovered, Muriel had offered him a job in Yeflam, not to learn the business he already knew, but the business he didn’t. A year later, she had financed Sin’s Hand and Sinae Al’tor’s independence. ‘He’s also as cold as fuck,’ Heast said, leaning back into the cushions. ‘You should have heard what he said about his son.’
‘His third son,’ Sinae replied. ‘They’re always the least cared for.’ After Heast grunted in reply, the spy pointed to the table. ‘He also delivered these papers. They are from a Keeper-run press here on Ghaam, and a Traders’ Union one on Burata.’
Heast didn’t reach for them. ‘I’ve read enough of those things,’ he said flatly.
‘Not these,’ Sinae said. ‘These are the first papers that are breaking the official embargo on a man named Qian. He was the prisoner, and I use that term very loosely, whom Lady Wagan traded for her place on that forsaken island.’
Intrigued, Heast leant across the table and flipped the papers over. On the front of the first, huge black letters said, JUSTICE DENIED. The second had a picture of Zaifyr, thin and, to Heast’s mind, much more evil than he was in real life, standing over a grave. KILLER AMONG US, read the title beneath. He opened both and saw huge blocks of text inside. ‘They have a lot to say,’ he said, leaning back. ‘Are they up to the usual standard of propaganda?’
‘According to Alahn, they are trying to force the matter of a trial. The second paper – the one with the picture – is owned by him. He said that the Keeper Eira, who is known as the Cold Witch or Bitch, depending on your experiences with her, told him personally that they were to make the public aware of what has happened since Qian’s arrival. She said he stands in the way of Yeflam being an independent power in the area. She told Alahn that once the trial is finished, the Leeran threat will be dealt with. It is not the official line from the Enclave, but Alahn ate it as if it was a treat. He is of the opinion that that is where the real threat lies, though others in the Traders’ Union do not agree with that.’ Sinae swirled the remains of his whisky around. ‘In fact, rumour has it that Benan Le’ta has been pushing for an alliance with the Leerans. That is more in keeping with the stance of the Enclave, but Le’ta claims that The Eternal Kingdom is an anti-Keeper book that will ultimately see Leera side with the Traders’ Union in control of Yeflam.’
‘How could a man be so stupid?’ Heast did not expect any answer. ‘He’ll be bitten by a snake before this is all over.’
‘The snake already hunts him. Unkind whispers suggest he may be a believer of the new god. People are trying to connect him with the printing of The Eternal Kingdom, but with little luck. At any rate, Lian Alahn senses weakness and has begun to fill sacks of snakes for Benan Le’ta.’
‘Muriel will want to hear that. Did he give you a letter to take to her?’
From within his clothes, Sinae pulled out the folded note. ‘He had his guard write it. Just in case it fell into someone else’s hands.’ The girl passed the letter to Heast. ‘This trial,’ he said, after the Captain of the Ghosts had taken it, opened it and read it. ‘Alahn believes the Keepers are seeking Qian’s death.’
The letter said no more than that Lian Alahn would like to extend his welcome. ‘Only because they don’t know better.’
The girl’s naked toes touched Heast’s side. ‘Everyone dies,’ she said softly.
‘You and I, yeah,’ he said, but did not touch her. ‘I used to ride with a witch called Anemone. This was before either of you were born. She was a Faaishan witch. You don’t see many these days; not many witches are willing to be bonded to their kin, much less go through the ritual. A Faaishan witch – a true Faaishan witch, a woman who sits with generations of her kin around her – feeds her kin with her own blood. Anemone was an old witch, from a long line. She liked to say that there had always been a witch in Refuge, and Refuge stretched back – well, some of the soldiers in it said it stretched back to before the War of the Gods. Anemone never claimed to keep her kin from back in those days, but she kept enough that she was frightening. Truly frightening. And she feared no one. But Zaifyr – the man called Qian in Yeflam – she was frightened of him. When I met him, we were both in Faaisha, and she offered us a small job. I won’t say it was anything special. It went how it went, and at the end of it we were all alive. But at the end of it, she told me that standing next to him was the most terrifying experience she had ever had. I had seen her stand before warlords. I had seen her kill swordsmen as if it was nothing. I even stood on Sooia with her. I had known Anemone since I was ten and had never before heard the fear she had in her voice then. It was not something that I understood until I heard him refer to Aelyn Meah as his sister.’
Sinae pushed his glass back to Heast, empty. ‘Yet you led him here in chains?’
‘He let us.’ He took the glass. ‘My advice is to keep a low profile while this plays out. But at any rate, I have a request, if you don’t mind?’
‘I don’t dance.’
Heast poured another two glasses. ‘I want you to tell Bnid Gaerl where I am.’
‘Your hands are not that clean, Captain.’
‘They never have been.’ He handed a glass back.
‘But I want you to tell the Captain of the Yeflam Guard where I am as well.’
‘Would you like a small army too?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘But I would like you to move Faise and Zineer Kanar to somewhere safe after you’ve done that.’
8.
A soft patter against the window woke him.
‘It is still beautiful to watch,’ Samuel Orlan said. The old cartographer stood at the window between their beds, the morning’s shadow-speckled sun falling over him. ‘I remember the first time I saw it. I had been told, of course. Everyone who is not born here is told of the mornings of Ooila. But it does not prepare you for the sight. Before I arrived, I was told the story of how the goddess Maita died and broke against the ground, falling to pieces. Thousands, millions: each piece was so tiny that cracks and holes and slivers in the ground took her deep beneath the soil, to lava, to the hearts of the volcanoes, to where it was said she bathed while alive. It was said that after she fell, the bottles that the witches held turned cold. They had been warm until then, but now they froze to the touch. So did the volcanoes. For a night, all of Ooila mourned, thinking that they had lost not just a god, but the souls of their brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, lovers and friends. They wept until the morning, until the butterflies emerged. Then they watched them die throughout the day. A few at first, until there was more, and the tread of men and women broke their bodies. They wept again that night, until the morning, when more rose. Only this time, they noticed that lava in the volcanoes rose with them.’
‘And cooled only when all were dead.’ Bueralan had been told the same as a child. ‘Until I was ten, I thought it a myth.’
Orlan’s laugh was touched with bitterness. ‘Ooilans live near death every day, and think not to blame the gods, not once.’