Monument

by Ian Graham

  ‘That is not your business,’ replied the big man.

  ‘Vagrancy is a crime,’ replied the Commander.

  ‘I had lodgings,’ muttered Ballas. ‘But I’ve abandoned them. As I shall abandon this city. It’s brought me only ill luck.’

  ‘We have all endured bad fortune,’ said the Commander, with unexpected sympathy. ‘From your condition’—he gestured towards Ballas’s blood-sodden garb—‘you have suffered more than most. Perhaps it was warranted. Perhaps it was not. But I will offer you a few words of advice. Return to your lodgings. Do not leave the city. Vagrancy is vagrancy, whether here or on the road to somewhere else. Wardens can distinguish between a traveller and a tramp. You will be arrested. Besides, you are in no fit state to travel. Winter is almost here. You will freeze.’

  ‘Not if I have whisky,’ said Ballas.

  The Commander took the flagon from him. Ballas was in too much pain to resist.

  ‘Watch your step,’ said the Commander.

  Turning, he strode away, followed by the young Warden.

  ‘Bastards,’ muttered Ballas.

  Grunting, he tried to stand. Nerve-splitting pain surged through his body. With a yelp, Ballas sagged against the Penance Oak. He coughed up a splash of bile. A breeze swept over him. He began shivering—as if the gust had blown unabated from the Frozen North. He had never felt so sick. So frail. So vulnerable.

  This feeling—painful, unfamiliar—appalled him.

  Growling, he grasped the Oak and dragged himself upright. His legs buckled. He dropped once more to his knees, heavily.

  A few passers-by stared. A courting couple, a gang of children, an aged, stern-eyed woman … they watched him, half disgusted, half amused.

  ‘What do you want?’ shouted Ballas. ‘What do you want!’

  This outburst hurt his ribs again. He groaned. The children laughed. Angry, Ballas thrust out a hand at them. They sprang back, as nimble as squirrels, elusive. Ballas overbalanced, falling on to all fours.

  He lifted his head slowly, like a wounded animal.

  ‘You should follow the Commander’s advice,’ said the aged woman. ‘Gaze upon yourself, and you will see he has spoken sense. You are a wretch. You are drunk, injured, incapable—’

  ‘Shut up!’ shouted Ballas. ‘Let me alone. All of you—be gone!’

  Yet there was something in the old woman’s words, Ballas conceded.

  Leaning against the Oak, feeling nauseous, he realised that he was not strong enough to leave Father Brethrien’s care. A single night on the streets could kill him. He might freeze to death. Or his open wounds, exposed to disease-infested vermin—the rats, dogs and cats that wandered the city—might get infected with a blood-taint.

  The holy man’s fluttering manners annoyed Ballas. But if he were to stay alive, he had to remain in the priest-home a little longer.

  And that meant performing his errand.

  Leaving Papal Square, Ballas shuffled to Half-moon Street. Several times he paused to catch his breath, or to vomit. When he arrived at the museum, his ribs were throbbing and bile blotched his tunic front.

  Stooping through a set of arched doors, he found himself in a large, high-ceilinged chamber of oaken display cases. Ballas scarcely glanced at the exhibits. Out of the corner of his eye he saw pottery, clothing, weaponry, carved idols— each item either from the past or from some region far beyond Druine—or both. But he took no proper notice. History was a futile passion, a bloodless sifting of bones and dust. Only the present mattered. For only in the present did fleshly joys exist. A whore’s rutting room was more beguiling than an ancient queen’s bedchamber. Common-room gossip more fascinating than intrigues of court. A cockfight more exhilarating than an account of a long-forgotten war.

  Ballas passed through the chamber. Then another. In the third, he heard voices—they came from a small doorway in the wall to Ballas’s left.

  Stooping through the doorway, Ballas found himself at the top of a flight of steps. He followed them down, halting a few steps from the bottom.

  Ahead stretched a long candlelit vault. Dark stone slabs paved the floor. From the walls shelves jutted. Upon some, animals’ skulls rested. There were deer, bull, wolf and ram skulls, each one white and criss-crossed with faint fracture lines. But there were also skulls of unrecognisable origin. A snout bone extended from one; from another’s pate jutted a curving, sharp-tipped horn, surrounded by inch-long spikes. Another skull had an absurdly heavy and protuberant jaw. Another had only a single eye socket, staring emptily from the forehead. Jumbled bones were heaped beside the skulls: a pale mound of fibulas, tibias, ribs, vertebrae.

  Other shelves held ancient vases, statuettes, graven images … objects like those exhibited in the chambers above.

  An old grey-robed man stood in the vault’s centre. Alongside him was a second man, of middle years and with a crumpled, wind-scoured face.

  ‘So,’ asked the old man, ‘how are things at the Academy? The institution—it is thriving, hm?’

  ‘It is thriving,’ said the second man. ‘As far as anything can thrive with the Church’s boot planted on its throat.’

  ‘The Blessed Masters are proving troublesome?’ It was the voice Ballas had heard in the priest-home, when his injuries were first tended. ‘They are interfering, yes?’

  ‘Every day, they place tighter limits on what we may study. They are suspicious of certain disciplines. They mistrust Linguistics, believing it may expose as counterfeit the testimonies of the Nine Witnesses. I do not understand how it could do so—the testimonies’ authenticity is beyond doubt. Yet the Church remains wary. And wary, too, of history: our historians are permitted to teach only a single Church-approved version of the past: one that acknowledges the Four’s existence, but does not delve deeply into Their lives— or even the age in which They lived.’

  ‘Including the Red War?’

  ‘From the blood spilled during our conflict with the Lectivins,’ said the other man, ‘Druine, and the Church’s power grew. There must be no reappraisal of that time. The foundations must be seen to be secure. The Church thinks it wisest to blindfold those scholars who would look closely.’

  ‘What do they fear, I wonder?’ said Calden, softly.

  ‘Fear? I do not believe the Masters fear anything: for there is nothing of substance to fear. There are hundreds, thousands of accounts of our conflict with the Lectivins. From the arrival of the Lectivin ships upon our shores, to our obliteration of the Pale Race, everything has been transcribed innumerable times. There is nothing new to be discovered.’ He sighed. ‘I think the Church worries that if people study the Lectivins, the Lectivins will cease to seem …’ He paused.

  ‘Extraordinary?’

  ‘Extraordinary,’ agreed the other man. ‘In our hearts, the Lectivins were demons, djinns, cohkaris—we know this is not so, but our hearts believe it nonetheless. However, our hearts will grow sceptical if our minds insist often enough that, in truth, the Lectivins were merely a different species. And in that, they were no more extraordinary than dogs, birds or fish. Or ourselves. The Church cannot permit this.’ He grew quiet. Then, as if uttering a dangerous secret, he said, ‘Have you heard about the archaeological dig in the Galdirran hills?’

  ‘A few rumours have floated my way.’ The old curator nodded. ‘Lectivin relics were unearthed, were they not? Then the Church closed down the excavations.’

  ‘You would imagine the relics were of a great and terrible nature. A nature that could shake the Church to its core …’

  ‘But they were not?’

  ‘The archaeologists unearthed bowls, spoons, eating daggers—that is all. Simple objects, in design similar to our own. And therein lies the problem. The Lectivins were not hugely unlike ourselves. Our appearances differed. But, like us, they prayed, crafted churches … and ate with cutlery.’ He laughed softly. ‘Such tiny details destroy any air of mystery. It is hard to imagine a real demon using a spoon. To preserve the Lectivins’ traditional image, t
he excavation was, as you said, terminated. The relics were confiscated, the ground filled in.’

  ‘And the archaeologists?’

  ‘I do not know for certain. But they have not returned to the Academy. Perhaps, when the site was earthed over, they too were buried. This is a dangerous era in which to be a thinker.’

  The two men were silent for a long time.

  Eventually Calden asked, ‘I take it your subject has not been forbidden?’

  ‘The Masters have yet to find geology objectionable,’ replied the other man. ‘I suspect they actually approve of it: they have a taste for fine, glittering objects, mined from the soil.’

  ‘I have something that may interest you,’ said Calden, moving towards a shelf.

  Muttering to himself under his breath, bored by the two men’s talk, Ballas almost descended the final steps into the vault. Yet he paused. Something had changed in Calden’s manner. Drawing out a wooden casket, the old man seemed excited. And infused with pride—as if he was about to amaze the geologist with something clever. Or unexpected.

  Maybe the casket contained nothing of interest. A pottery fragment. A famous warrior’s rusted dagger handle. A quill used by a revered philosopher. Any article that, despite its drabness, would thrill a scholar.

  But maybe it held something better.

  Ballas stepped back into the gloom at the stairwell’s base.

  Calden placed the casket on a wooden desk, then opened it with a key strung around his neck.

  ‘This is why I sent for you,’ he said, taking out a black iron disc, about four inches across. In the centre nestled a blue gemstone, measuring an inch from side to side. Near the disc’s edge, four more stones—blood red, this time—were inset at the cardinal compass points.

  ‘What do you think?’ asked Calden, passing it to the geologist.

  ‘It is pretty,’ said the other man. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I have yet to deduce its function. Perhaps it is a mere ornament. Or maybe a talisman of some description. Several weeks ago, a scholar of some eminence passed away. He bequeathed me a collection of items, of which this was one. I believe its origins were as unknown to him as they are to me. Now,’ he moved slightly closer, peering himself at the disc, ‘tell me what the gemstones are.’

  ‘Those on the outside appear to be rubies.’ The geologist touched a fingertip to them. ‘Yes—rubies.’

  ‘And the gemstone in the centre?’

  ‘Opal,’ replied the geologist. ‘No, wait. It is too dark. Diamond, perhaps. Stones of a similar shade have been brought from Gohavi.’

  ‘It is not a diamond.’

  ‘How can you be so certain?’

  ‘Hold it to a candle flame,’ said Calden, ‘and tell me if any diamond in history has behaved like this gemstone.’

  Crossing the floor, the geologist lifted the disc to a candle burning in a niche. From his position on the steps, Ballas could not see the effect of the flame’s light on the gemstone itself. But what he could see surprised him. Startled him, even.

  A wash of blue light poured from the gemstone, illuminating the geologist’s face. The light was strong; blinking, the geologist tilted his head. Then he frowned.

  ‘Calden,’ he whispered, ‘I have never seen such a thing.’

  ‘A marvel, is it not?’

  ‘Never have I witnessed such a play of light within a gemstone’s depths. It does not merely glitter; it … it …’ Words failed him briefly. ‘Those flecks, drifting and falling, like sparks in a furnace … each flaring like a fragment of gold … like sunlight in a rock pool’s shallows … You said it was left to you, by a scholar of note. Where did he obtain it?’

  ‘I do not know. He travelled widely, within Druine and beyond. He could have found it anywhere. I have consulted the major texts. Bahane’s Catalogue of the Earth-Bright, Tharkannan’s Minerales Universalis … Of such a stone, there is no mention. Perhaps—’

  ‘It is unique?’ finished the geologist.

  Calden nodded.

  ‘Perhaps it is indeed one of a kind,’ said the geologist thoughtfully.

  ‘If you wish to study it properly,’ said Calden, a touch hesitantly, ‘you may borrow it. If you promise that, in your hands, it will be safe.’

  The geologist lowered the disc. The candle flame no longer lit the gemstone. The blue light vanished.

  ‘It will not be safe,’ said the geologist plainly.

  ‘You fear the Church might confiscate it?’

  ‘The frame-piece has a primitive look; the Church might believe it was a religious item, from the age before the Melding. They will not permit such items to circulate. And my students—they are interested less in scholarship than in drinking and whoring. Such pastimes are not inexpensive. Every now and then, a few items are stolen from the storage rooms. Such a piece as this,’ he touched the disc, ‘might prove a great temptation. It is best not to place shining things within the sight of magpies. Now, Calden, I must go; I have to deliver a lecture on Catharrian emeralds. In themselves, they are truly beautiful. But compared to that gemstone? Ha! They might as well be lumps of coal. Fare you well, Calden.’ Turning, he walked towards the door.

  Spinning on his heel, Ballas jogged noiselessly up the steps, unseen by the geologist and the curator.

  Ballas returned to the priest-home. In the kitchen, a fire blazed. Warm air curled over the big man as he stepped inside.

  Father Brethrien was kneeling at the hearth, prodding the fire with a brass poker. ‘Did you pay Calden?’ he asked, glancing up.

  ‘Aye,’ replied Ballas truthfully.

  ‘Was he happy to see you? You are, in part, a testament to his skills as a physician. He must have found it gratifying to—’

  ‘We did not speak. I merely paid him and went.’

  The curator had wanted to talk. When Ballas gave him the coins, he had asked some question about the big man’s health. Uninterested, Ballas had ignored him.

  Now he treated the priest the same way. Striding past him, Ballas went to his sleeping-room. He uncorked a whisky flagon, stolen from the cart of a market-stall owner. Taking a long swallow, he thought of the iron disc. Of the four glinting rubies. Of the blue gemstone.

  He remembered the geologist’s awe. He heard again the talk of drifting golden sparks … of uniqueness …

  ‘What am I,’ murmured Ballas, ‘but a magpie? Enjoy your bauble while you can, curator. Soon it will be gone.’

  Chapter 3

  Amidst the western hills of Banderine

  A tanner heard the creator-god’s word

  And, thus blessed, forsook his trade for

  The vestments of a Pilgrim;

  And he too would gaze into the heart

  Of Good and Evil …

  Slowly, Ballas’s body healed. The bruises faded and his skin grew fishpale. The lacerations closed over, leaving thin pink scars. His cracked ribs—though still sore—no longer ached intolerably at the mildest touch.

  During this time, the big man’s days passed monotonously. The priest gave him two pennies a day, to be spent on food. Sometimes the money did find its way into a butcher’s hand: Ballas purchased all manner of treats that, as a vagrant, he had been denied: herb-sprinkled pork cutlets, venison sausages, honey-roasted duck and—just once, for the portions were minuscule—a pair of lark’s wings. Other times, he spent the money on alcohol. He would settle in a tavern for a whole afternoon and imbibe ale and wine. When he hungered, he would visit the market and steal what he craved. Marketplace meats were not as fine as those found in butcher shops— there were no lark wings or duck—but the pilfered morsels were enough to fill his stomach. Naturally, he carried out such thefts with caution. He rarely visited the same stall two days in a row; often, he would walk the extra half-mile to a different market.

  In the evenings, he would sit in his sleeping-room, drinking. The priest seldom troubled him. Perhaps he accepted the big man’s silences. And if he detected liquor upon his breath, he never mentioned it. The h
oly man was content for Ballas to indulge himself.

  Ballas thought often of the iron disc. Of the gemstone. And the thought aided his recovery. After fourteen days, Ballas felt well enough to leave the priest-home.

  The day had passed like any other.

  Ballas had risen at noon. Taking a small amount of meat-money from the priest, he had settled in a tavern and grown moderately drunk. At the market, he stole a slab of cooked steak, which he ate greedily; then—as if Mistress Fortune was favouring him—he found upon the ground a dropped purse: it contained coppers enough for a flagon of whisky. When the light began to fade, and the early nocturnal chill seeped through the streets, Ballas returned to the priest-home and went to his sleeping-room.

  As full darkness settled on Soriterath, he heard the priest-home’s front door creak open—then close softly. Cracking open his window shutters, he peered out.

  Fifty yards away stood Brethrien’s church: an oval flat-roofed building of dark brick, with a five-foot-tall iron Scarrendestin image mounted over the doorway and a bell tower at the rear. A dozen people waited outside.

  Squinting, Ballas saw Father Brethrien walking towards them, ready to deliver his evening sermon. Something gleamed dully in his right hand. A flagon of holy wine, Ballas realised.

  ‘Good idea, priest,’ he said softly, closing the shutters.

  He went into the kitchen. From the shelf he took a wine flagon.

  ‘Let us see,’ he muttered, tugging out the cork, ‘how good those monks are at winemaking.’

  He took a long swallow. Then he grimaced. The liquid was coarse—it scorched his throat like vinegar.

  ‘Pilgrims’ blood! Is this what pious folk drink? Seems they want to suffer like the Four did.’ Shrugging, he took another swig. This time it tasted no worse than any tavern wine.

  He looked around the kitchen.

  In the corner stood a sack of vegetables. Ballas nodded to himself: the sack would prove useful later. On the table rested a heap of parchments, a bowl of ink, and the knife Brethrien used for sharpening his quills. Taking the knife, and a wooden fork from the shelf, Ballas returned to his sleeping-room.