by Tom Lloyd
Miraculously, neither of the windows had been broken or stolen – folk avoided the house, though Mayel did not know why. Shandek insisted it wasn't haunted, and blamed the atmosphere of fear that permeated the district on a rash of recent, unsolved disappearances. Mayel hadn't been quite convinced by that, but the abandoned house was still imposing, even now, so it wouldn't be surprising if it had become the focus of suspicion. He had to admit no one was likely to store goods in a place he feared, so it was more likely Shandek had spread the rumours himself.
Mayel took a lamp down off its bracket and, stepping over sacks full of strange plants and pots of dark, glutinous liquids, took it over to the scarred table in the centre of the room. He noted the lamps were burning low. If the abbot returned from his walk early, Mayel could say he was refilling them. Mayel recognised the heavy tomes that he had personally lugged from the monastery amongst the piles of books that covered the table. He picked up one that lay open and scanned the feathery script, hoping for an indication of what the abbot was work¬ing on. It was hard to read, and even harder to make sense of. At the bottom of one page was a strange drawing, vague lines swirling about each other, that he struggled to understand. He cocked his head to one side and was frowning at the page when it came into focus: a (all figure with sword drawn, standing over a prone knight. The artist had carefully blacked out the sword's blade with ink. The caption below said Velere's Fell. Mayel assumed that the prone figure was Velere, the Elven prince. The archaic text appeared to be describing the feats of an immortal hero called Aracnan, and his particular devotion to his lord, though Mayel couldn't actually work out who this lord was, as his name was never mentioned. There was something about a battle in a field of wild flowers, and a shifting wall of smoke which had aided Aracnan's holy quest. That passage was worn dark, smudged by past scholars who had run their fingers along the line as they read, but Mayel could not fathom why it was important. He knew it was not from the library, but from the abbot's personal collection, and that meant the abbot himself, and maybe past abbots too, had thought that bit important.
'Don't mind that now,' Mayel told himself, 'you're just getting distracted. You're not here to read his books but to find that bloody box.'
The room was in a chaotic state. Mayel hadn't been allowed down here since he'd dragged in the table for the abbot to work at. He continued his search, finding another valuable-looking book, bound in tarnished, silvery metal, hidden under the table. It was wrapped in waxed cloth. The cover looked as if had been inscribed by hand, but the words meant nothing to him – even in the monastery he'd not seen this language before… he thought it was strange that the title had been written on to such a fine book rather than embossed. He tried to open it, and found to his surprise that the cover was glued shut. There was no locking mechanism to be seen, and even turning the book over he could see nothing that would lock it shut. Mayel ran his finger down the inside edge of the hard leather cover and yelped as something sharp dug into his finger. He dropped the book back onto the table and stuck his finger in his mouth. After a moment he pulled it out again to inspect the cut. Blood still welled from a tiny incision but when he licked it clean again he realised the cut was a strange shape, almost like a tiny formal monogram of two entwined characters, V and V. Mayel, intrigued, compared it to the cover of the book. It had the same device on it, within a wreath of ivy leaves.
'Well, that's strange,' Mayel muttered as he turned the book over to inspect it. Oddly, he could see nothing sharp – but when he gingerly ran a fingernail down the same spot, there was a flash of silver as if from nowhere and the same strange shape was cut into his fingernail.
'Magic,' he breathed in wonder. The abbot was a skilled mage, but Mayel had no talent himself. Even holding a book bearing some small enchantment gave him a thrill that took away the sting of his bleed¬ing finger entirely.
A scraping sound from upstairs made Mayel flinch: the kitchen door had been opened. Mayel had jammed a small stone under the door, and it was that scraping that had alerted him. He grabbed the lamp and blew out the flame and as he cast a last glance around the room, he finally spotted the box. It was open, a long red velvet scarf all that remained inside. Clearly the scarf had been protection, but whatever had been inside the lacquered box was gone now.
Mayel cursed softly, then muttered, 'Well, you don't need padding for gold.' With the extinguished lamp still in his hand he opened the door and started back up the stairs.
'Abbot Doren, you're back,' he exclaimed, startling the old man as he appeared silently behind him.
'Yes, yes, I had an idea that I needed to note down.' The abbot scowled suspiciously, but the novice had long since perfected his naive expression for the monastery elders.
'You really should have stayed out for longer than five minutes. You need some air. You ate hardly anything last night, and you worked the whole night again.' Mayel raised the extinguished lamp as though presenting evidence.
Ah, you were changing the oil?'
'Of course, Father.' His face creased into innocent puzzlement. 'You said you didn't want your laboratory tidied, but you still need light to work by.'
The abbot studied his young charge for a moment then scratched at his head in a distracted manner. 'Very good of you.' He looked unconvinced, but lack of sleep had made him a little addled. 'I have an errand I need you to run,' he said finally.
Mayel smiled up at the sun. It was just two hours since dawn and still cool compared to the cruel afternoon sun. The street was deserted, despite the fine morning, though he could hear the city's constant grumble all around him. He jumped at a scurrying sound from the scorched shell of a shack off to his left, feeling suddenly isolated. He could see nothing behind the shack, where bare parches of earth were
interspersed with dark green clumps of grass, not even a rat or feral cat.
'Good mornin', cousin,' called a voice from behind him. Mayel whirled around, a look of panic on his face, only relaxing as he recog¬nised Shandek, who had appeared from nowhere with one of his thugs. His cousin was a burly man of thirty-three summers, with the hair and complexion of a Farlan. Mayel, who was half his age, had darker skin and fairer hair, although he'd shaved his head to get rid of the tonsure that marked him as a follower of Vellern. It felt curiously liberating to feel the breeze curl around his ears and down his nape. Shandek, however, was proud of his long, lank hair, which marked him out on the streets he ruled.
'A better morning than the previous ones that have welcomed us here,' Mayel replied with a smile. Six years in the monastery had left him with a cultured voice as well as an education. Despite Shandek's wealth and influence, Mayel knew his unschooled cousin held a secret regard for those who could read and write, and he was counting on that, because the ties of blood would go only so far.
'True enough. We'd begun to wonder whether your abbot brought the dark clouds with him.' Shandek stepped forward with a grin and slung his arm around Mayel's shoulder. 'How goes your abbot's experi¬ments? Have you yet learned what he's up to?'
Mayel shook his head. 'He still doesn't let me in to his labora¬tory. He tells me it's for my own safety, but I know he's worried about trusting anyone. If Jackdaw could turn on him after years of service, anyone could.'
'I still think we should just go and take it off him,' rumbled Shandek's companion, a man who was wide enough to appear squat despite being almost six feet tall. 'One old man won't cause me an' Shyn any problems.'
Shandek reached over and gave his comrade a friendly cuff on the shoulder. 'Shut it, Brohm. Even in hidin', the man's still a high priest. He'd turn you insides-out soon as you burst through the door.'
'I thought they had to brew up potion to use magic? Can't see that bein' quicker than the time it takes to shove a knife in his gut.'
'That just shows your ignorance, Brohm,' Mayel declared. 'He can draw energies out of the air – I've seen him light fires with a snap of his fingers, so unless your underclothes are made of steel, I doubt you'd ge
t the chance to use that knife of yours. And if that didn't work, he
still has an Aspect of Vellern to call upon at a moment's notice, one that will certainly take exception to you trying to hurt the abbot. His Aspect-guide is called Erwillen the High Hunter, and he has claws large enough to rip off your head and a trident to place it upon after¬wards. You'd wet your drawers just to look at him in the flesh.'
The larger man took a step forward, fist bunched, but Shandek stepped between them with a chuckle. 'Peace, friend. Mayel, keep your bloody mouth in check until you have the muscle to back it up. Brohm in't the fool you think he is, but he is three times your size. Brohm, let me talk to my cousin alone. You keep an eye out for our dark man.'
Brohm grunted, glaring at Mayel, then walked the few yards to the corner of the street.
'Dark man?' Mayel asked as he watched Brohm go.
'Rumours we've been hearin'; nothin' to concern a man of letters such as you. Maybe somethin' to do with the disappearances round here. Normally I'd say it's folk being fanciful, but with all the bad sorts that've turned up since the turn of the year, I'm not so sure. It may be nothin', but best you keep an eye open. Strangers walkin' these parts alone, that sort a' thing.'
'I will. Thanks for the warning, cuz.'
'Good. Now, what do you have to tell me?'
'Little. He's researching some ancient history, the Great War, among other things. I didn't get much time in there. Do you know if Jackdaw has followed us into the city?'
'Not that I've heard, but my people ain't entirely welcome in some districts, so it's hard to be sure.'
'He's not hard to miss, not with his tattoos,' Mayel pointed out, earning a warning look from Shandek.
'Nor is your abbot, and keepin' his presence a secret was not easy. You cost me money, boy. I don't begrudge it, not to family in need, but this abbot means nothing' to me and I'm startin' to wonder why I'm puttin' meself out so.'
'It will be worthwhile, I promise. He has some sort of artefact – at the very least it will be a relic – and you can sell that to a collector without any difficulty.'
And at best?'
At best it's some magical item. Our libraries at the monastery were extensive, and had many locked cells. Some things I think they intentionally kept away from the rest of the Land, afraid men would attack the island if they knew what was kept there.' He looked at Shandek, who was still scowling. The man didn't like being kept in the dark, and Mayel could tell his patience wouldn't last long.
Finally, he nodded. 'Fine then, just you don't waste my time, you hear? We've not yet discussed a price for you when you do get it. Best we get that out of the way early, since you're family. Nothin' worse than bickerin' with your blood, eh?' There was something of a smirk creeping onto Shandek's face. His cousin always liked negotiating from a position of strength.
'Well, you'll have guessed that I don't want to go back, so if it's a relic, we split the proceeds of any sale and I come to work for you. I've got clerking skills that will be useful to you.'
'And if it's somethin' more?'
'Then after your costs, the money is mine.'
Shandek gave a splutter of laughter and slapped him on the back.
'Wait, hear me out first,' Mayel protested. 'The condition will be that I use the money to buy a share – I'm not asking to be an equal partner, of course not, just to have a stake. I know you're not happy to stay another man's vassal, and this could help.'
'You better be careful, talkin' like that,' Shandek said softly. 'Spider, he don't like to hear such talk, and he hears more than me. It could mean both our deaths if someone overheard you there, mine just because we're cousins, and he'd not trust me again after he had you killed.'
'Is he really so paranoid?'
'You have to ask? Man's still a mystery to me, ten years on. Never met 'im, never even heard his real name.' Shandek raised his left hand, waggling the stub of his little finger, which was covered in twisted scars. 'This was a friendly reminder after I tried too hard to find that out. Other men've been killed for not getting' the message.' He pointed at the road leading to the city centre and, his voice still lowered, said, ' I hear he went back on an order a few days back. Not somethin' I've ever heard happen before. Fancy a wander through the Shambles? Tread old haunts once more? I hear there's a theatre company renovatin' the sunken theatre – it's been derelict since your old friend set fire to it two years ago.'
'Old friend? Who-Shirrel?'
'That's the bastard. Never understood why you were friends with the boy but-'
'Why we were friends?' Mayel exclaimed. 'I might have been young, but I wasn't so stupid as that. If Shirrel wanted to be your friend, you were his friend. Lest o' course you wanted to wake up on fire.'
'Well, that won't happen now. Mad bastard decided to stay inside the theatre as it burnt. Perhaps he was watchin' his own perform¬ance?'
'Don't ask me to explain how his mind worked.' Mayel was too lost in his memories of poverty and childish spite to notice Shandek's effort at a joke. 'Anyway, what about this theatre company?'
'Ah yes. Someone was sent down to collect a little token of their respect to Spider, and it turned out they had none.'
Are they mad?'
'Perhaps. The man sent got a bad beatin'. Apparently they have a few albino boys workin' for them, vicious, hairless shites, who walk around barefoot, jabberin' in some language no one else can under¬stand. They must have come from the Waste or somethin', never seen their like before. Started more than one fight in the taverns too, drink like Chetse, so I'm told. Anyway, they worked the messenger over and dumped 'im in the street. Don't talk so well now, might not walk again, neither.'
'So Spider said to burn the place down again?'
'Exactly. Only it didn't happen, for reasons I didn't get told, and Spider called back the order the next day. Said he'd come to an "accommodation" with them and they were to be left alone.' Shandek sounded less than pleased at being kept out of the loop: the theatre bordered his own fiefdom.
'Sounds scared.'
'That's what I think. Those albinos must be pretty nasty, to frighten that bastard.'
'So why are we going there?'
Mayel's expression must have betrayed what he was feeling, because Shandek look one look at him and burst out laughing. 'No, I'm not takin' you to fight them, you fool! Spider said we couldn't lean on them, and I'm not inclined to.' Shandek waved an admonishing finger In Mayel's lace. 'But he didn't say nothin' about talkin' in a friendly manner. We're just going down for a chat see what we can see. It might be that they're just insane and got lucky, hut I doubt it. No, they've got somethin' nasty up their sleeves and I'd be interested to find out what. And of course, there's my golden rule of life-'
'Which is?'
'When someone's got somethin' to hide, there's money to be made. There's somethin' going on there; might be they could find some use of a man with local knowledge, a man who knows how to find things quietly and quickly. Either that, or the authorities might pay to know more about them.'
'And if you make a powerful friend in the process?'
All the better, my lad,' Shandek declared with a chuckle. A new friend warms the heart, that's what I always say.'
The Shambles was a place of dark, narrow alleyways. The two proper streets that cut through the district had been crammed with stalls and carts almost as soon as the cobblestones were laid. The smell was just as Mayel remembered: rotting vegetables, sewage, and meat gone bad in the sun. The gutter down the middle of the street was invariably clogged with bloody entrails and what off-cuts were too rancid for even the feral animal population. The area was a warren of tiny houses that brought back a host of memories. This was where Mayel had been born; this place had been his first education. For all the squalor, the sense of community was palpable, and right now he could feel fierce eyes watching him without recognition, resenting the outsider being publicly paraded by the man whose word was law in the shadows of the Shambles.
&
nbsp; 'Do you want to go by the old house? I rented it to a tanner and his family – eight squealin' brats, all a match for you and your sister.'
Mayel shook his head. He didn't trust his voice not to betray the emotion he felt now. The Shambles was smaller to his eyes, ruder and meaner than it had seemed when he'd not known better. Guilt gnawed at him. He'd left with his father, hugging his sister tight so as to not lose her in the crowd of people fleeing the city. Their mother lay on the one bed in the shack they called home, dying of the white plague. With her last breath she urged them to flee. He could still see the blood-flecked foam bubbling from her mouth as she pleaded for them to save themselves.
For some reason his father had decided a life of service to Vellern would save them – and perhaps he'd been right, though Mayel had learned at the monastery that the white plague was nowhere near as contagious as the peasants believed it. Whatever the truth, they had set off on their pilgrimage to the Island of Birds. After a week of tramping dirt roads, his sister had stumbled, and never found the strength to get up again. The memory still left a knot in his stomach. He hadn't had the strength to hate his father then, but he'd made up for it later.
'I understand.' Shandek's voice was softer now. He knew the start of the story, and recognised the pain on Mayel's face. 'You never told me what happened to your da'.'
'He died,' Mayel replied flatly. 'After a few months he realised a monastery where they didn't make wine wasn't the place for him. Tried to slip away at night in a small boat. The Bitches took him.'
'The Bitches?'
'The rocks around the island. The monks always claimed that only people who'd fished the lake their whole life are able to navigate through them. They don't even let men from the village sail alone until they've thirty summers. Everyone else ends up smashed against the Bitches.'
'Right.' Shandek lapsed into silence. Sympathy was an underused emotion of his. What could a man say? Pity was a woman's prov¬ince, and he didn't like to intrude. Instead, he let his eyes wander the familiar lines of his home. After thirty-three summers of walking these streets, he could pick up the slightest change, whether it was a rise in fortunes permitting repairs, or the subtle indications that a man or woman were drinking more than they were working nowadays. Shandek kept an eye out for these people. It didn't do to have utter misery and complete poverty. It was like he always said: make sure the sheep are fat before you fleece them.