by Ian Graham
The queue inched forwards.
Eventually, Ballas found himself at the table.
‘You lost the wager, did you not?’ said Gramiche, glancing up. ‘You placed a penny on the beak-spike cockerel.’
‘That is true,’ said Ballas.
‘Then you are after some root, hm?’ Gramiche’s green eyes glimmered. A faint smile quirked his lips. ‘If you hurt, in body or soul, it will soothe you. And if you are ignorant, it will bring enlightenment.’ He spoke the words with wry cynicism. Root was a sham, an indulgence of fools. And he knew it. He knew also that those who used it were helpless to do otherwise. It was fiercely addictive.
‘I want you to arrange a meeting for me with Carrande Black,’ said Ballas bluntly.
Gramiche blinked. Then he glanced at two heavy-set, broad-shouldered men sitting beside him. Ballas had noticed them before. They were part of the reason Gramiche could wear the emerald ring without fear.
‘Who are you?’ he asked, leaning forward slightly.
‘My name doesn’t matter,’ replied Ballas. ‘What matters is that your master is wealthy, and has an eye for beautiful things.’
‘Why should that concern you?’
‘I own the most beautiful thing,’ said Ballas. ‘A gemstone that outshines every other in Druine—a unique piece that I am willing to sell.’
‘A gemstone,’ murmured Gramiche. ‘What would you know of gemstones—and beauty? Your expertise, I think, does not extend beyond drinking. And sleeping rough. I speak as one who recognises such things.’ He gestured towards Ballas. ‘You are filthy. You stink. And recently,’ he peered at Ballas’s face, ‘you have been beaten. These are not the characteristics of someone acquainted with beauty. A gemstone of merit? My friend, you wouldn’t know frozen piss from citrine quartz.’
Ballas felt his temper rising. Not because Gramiche had spoken falsely: every word he’d uttered was true. But because he’d had the audacity to say such things at all. Gramiche was a small man, Ballas noticed. Yet, nestling between the two bigger men, who were clearly in his service, he was safe. There was a species of tropical fly that behaved in a similar fashion. It alighted upon the head of a galskiros—a savage, marsh-dwelling creature—and, once there, remained safe from the birds and rats that normally preyed upon it. Ballas wondered idly if it was part of the natural order, that the weak should exploit the strong.
‘The gemstone’s been looked at by a geologist from the Academy,’ said Ballas.
‘Ah! You are a friend of scholars, are you?’
‘I am not,’ said Ballas. ‘But the gemstone’s previous owner was. The geologist reckoned it was unique. But you don’t need to be a scholar to know that. A halfwit could tell from a single glance. I hear your master likes sparkling things. Things that are unusual—and valuable. Let me meet with him, and I’ll offer up the gemstone. Of course, my price’ll be high. But fine things don’t come cheap.’
Gramiche sighed. ‘A persistent fellow, isn’t he?’ he said, glancing at one of the big men. ‘And brisk of tongue. It is often the case with vagrants. They rarely stop talking—if only to themselves. You often find them in ditches, muttering. Or on street corners, rocking back and forth, jabbering like prophets of the East. It is a form of lunacy, I think.’
He stared closely at Ballas.
‘But that is by the by. Even one who dwells in a midden may find a treasure. Who is to say what strange circumstances may lead a worthless soul to a thing of value? Show me this gemstone, vagrant.’
‘I haven’t brought it with me,’ said Ballas. ‘I thought it wise to leave it somewhere safe.’ Ballas had taken lodgings in the Scarlet Star—a tavern half a mile from the Broken Moon. At this moment, the iron disc nestled under the floorboards of his room. In his mind’s eye, Ballas could see it there, amid dust, cobwebs and spiders’ carcasses.
Gramiche laughed. ‘You cannot show me this gemstone— yet you would have me take you to Carrande Black? A man whose time is scarce? And whose patience is short?’
‘If you don’t,’ said Ballas heavily, ‘I’ll find a different buyer. And he’ll be boastful, of course. He’ll tell others about the gemstone. Its reputation will spread, and your master’ll hear of it—then he’ll want to know why he doesn’t have it. Why it isn’t his to be boastful about. When you, little Gramiche, say it’s your fault—and, believe me, I’ll tell the buyer that you turned it down, so your master will find out— how’ll Carrande Black respond? With gratitude? I don’t think so. He’s a ruthless man, isn’t he? He doesn’t care for other folks’ suffering. He’ll slice your balls off.’
Ballas leaned close to Gramiche. The little man wore a fragrance—lavender, it seemed.
‘But if your master owned the gemstone, wouldn’t he be happy? Wouldn’t his reputation soar up, like a bloody lark? Wouldn’t he love you like a brother? Wouldn’t he give you a little extra in your wages—and leave your balls where they hang?’
Gramiche touched a finger to his lips. ‘What if this gemstone is merely coloured glass or a sparkling pebble, plucked from a stream bed? You might be lying about its uniqueness.’
‘Then your master needn’t buy it,’ said Ballas. ‘As you said, he’s an impatient man. If anyone’ll get punished, it’ll be me—for wasting his time. You can say you had no reason to mistrust me. Which you haven’t. After all, didn’t you just say that people like me sometimes come across beautiful things?’
Gramiche grew thoughtful. Ballas watched him, trying to assess his mood.
Gramiche lifted the ring to his lips, sucking absently on its emerald.
‘If you are deceiving me,’ he said eventually, ‘you will be killed. Either by my master—or by me. For I too am short-tempered, and not fond of wasting my time.’
‘Your master won’t be disappointed,’ said Ballas easily. ‘Very well. Do you know the warehouse on Scimitar Street?’
‘I’ll find it.’
‘Go there at eveningfall. We will see if this gemstone is all you claim.’
Ballas returned to his lodgings at the Scarlet Star.
In his room, he prised up the floorboards. The iron disc nestled safely beneath them. He brushed away the dust and a clinging tangle of cobwebs.
Sitting upon his bed, he watched the daylight fade.
As the sky darkened, he hid the disc inside the sack, left the tavern and headed off in the direction of Scimitar Street. After half an hour of walking, he found the warehouse Gramiche had spoken of. Ducking inside, he was greeted by the man with the emerald ring.
‘I trust that, this time, you have brought the gemstone?’ asked Black’s assistant, leading Ballas up a flight of wooden steps. ‘I trust, too, that its beauty hasn’t tarnished since we last spoke? For what I said still stands: waste my master’s time and either he or I will punish you.’
They halted upon a landing, outside a black-painted door. Gramiche rapped upon it. After a pause, he showed Ballas through.
Carrande Black’s office was large. And elaborately furnished. Deep blue rugs, edged with gold thread, covered the floor. On the walls hung tapestries, many from the Distant East. In red-silver stitching, there were depictions of caliphs’ pleasures: couples rutting in bathing pools, and under palm trees; men on horseback hunting sand deer, desert bulls and triple-horned mohjariks; others gambling in lantern-lit hallways, winning and losing diamonds on the roll of carved bone dice.
A bookcase stood by a curtained window. It held no ordinary volumes: the spine letterings were picked out in finely cut gemstones, and were done in a strange, looping script. Ballas guessed that the books, like the tapestries, originated in the East. Gold ornaments rested on shelves, glittering in the candlelight. There were finely crafted boxes, inset with black diamonds, ornamental daggers with quartz-encrusted hilts— and a statuette of a naked woman surging up from a pool: every water droplet trickling over her body was a fragment of polished opal.
Carrande Black sat behind a mahogany desk. His grey-white hair was fastened in a ponytail.
Although his garb was plain—merely black trousers and leggings—it was made from the finest wools and silks. Two gold rings gleamed on his fingers. In each, the stones were tiny and pale, yet they flickered brilliantly. Ballas sensed that, despite their small size, they were immeasurably valuable.
Black’s face was narrow, his jaw sharp-tipped. His lips were thin; his eyes, capped by jet-black brows, were cold and dark. Yet they glowed: the irises might have been crafted from obsidian.
The merchant was writing upon a square of parchment. Gramiche gestured for Ballas to be seated. The big man settled himself upon a bare wooden chair in front of the desk.
For a while, nothing happened. Carrande Black continued writing as if Ballas were not present. The big man fidgeted. Black’s quill rasped back and forth. The noise irritated Ballas: it echoed in his ears like the chattering of a solitary locust.
Suddenly, Black stopped writing. Signing the parchment, he laid down his quill.
‘Gramiche tells me you have an item of interest,’ he said, looking up. His gaze was predatory: the calculating stare of a hawk, hover-hanging over a wheatfield. ‘A gemstone, yes?’
Ballas nodded. ‘A gemstone of great beauty,’ he said.
‘Then let me see it,’ said Black, spreading his hands wide. Ballas took the iron disc from the sack. He set it on Black’s desk.
The merchant glanced at it, then looked at Ballas. ‘There are five stones there— the blue one in the centre and—’ he picked up the disc ‘—four rubies around the outside.’
Ballas glanced at Gramiche. The little man sat perched upon a divan pushed up against the office’s wall.
‘I did not mention the rubies,’ explained the big man, ‘for, although they are in themselves fine, they cannot be compared with the blue gemstone.’
Carrande Black turned the disc over. He rubbed his fingertips over the gemstone. Then over the rubies. ‘How did you come by this piece?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Ballas. ‘I own it, and that is all that counts. Except, of course, whether you want it for yourself.’
Black peered at the blue gemstone. ‘A university scholar claims that this is unique, you say?’
‘Yes,’ replied Ballas.
‘He is mistaken,’ replied Black flatly, a faint smile touching his lips. ‘The wise, educated man is wrong. This—’ he tapped the gemstone ‘—is diamond. I have seen similar before. I will give you two gold pieces for it, and for the rubies.’
Ballas smiled. ‘You make the same error as the scholar.’
Black lifted his chin. ‘Explain yourself.’
‘Hold the gemstone to a candle flame.’
Black glanced curiously at Gramiche, as if the man with the emerald ring knew what to expect.
The little man shrugged.
‘Do as I suggest,’ said Ballas, ‘and you’ll see it is no diamond. You’ll find it’s like nothing else in Druine.’
‘It is not for you to give my master instructions,’ said Gramiche sharply.
‘Be silent,’ replied Black, quietly. ‘If he offends me, he shall know it soon enough.’ His gaze lingered on Ballas for a moment. Then he tilted the iron disc towards a candle on the desk.
Blue light streamed over Black’s face. From where he was sitting, Ballas couldn’t see the sparks in the stone. Yet their reflections were visible upon the merchant’s skin: a cluster of pale yellow-blue flickers, slowly swirling.
Black’s expression remained unimpressed. This was a pretence, Ballas knew. In Black’s neck a pulse fluttered. On his forehead a vein swelled. His hands trembled.
For a few seconds Black gazed into the gemstone. ‘It is pretty, I grant you that. I’ll give you three gold pieces for it.’
‘You jest,’ said Ballas quietly. ‘You offered two before you held it to the candle. I’ve seen what happens when light strikes it. I know it’s worth more than an extra gold coin. Pilgrims’ wounds, each ruby is worth two in gold. Perhaps four. They’re of decent quality. You know they are, Carrande Black.’
Black plucked a velvet purse from his belt and took three gold coins from it. He placed them upon the table where they glimmered in the candlelight.
‘Three gold coins,’ said the merchant softly. ‘Have you ever seen so much money? I suspect you are a self-indulgent man. What pleasures do you favour ? Women? Drink? Visionary’s root? Whatever. With these coins—’ Black touched them lightly ‘—you can create a private heaven on earth. How many people have such an opportunity? Think carefully about what you will be abandoning if you refuse my offer.’
The uppermost coin reflected a candle flame’s light. The tight bud of brightness swayed back and forth. It mesmerised Ballas: he watched it, dully hypnotised, feeling an increasing desire to accept Black’s offer. He scratched his head. Then he grunted.
‘I’ll take nothing less than fifteen gold pieces.’ He watched Black for a reaction.
The merchant remained impassive. Except for a faint arching of his eyebrows. A slow blink.
‘Now it is you who jest,’ said Black, a strangely equable note in his voice.
‘I’ve spent my life dirt-poor,’ said Ballas. ‘I find little in money to laugh about.’
Black touched a knuckle to his lips. ‘Five gold pieces,’ he said softly.
‘Merchant, are you deaf? I asked for fifteen—’
‘And I have offered five,’ said Black, his eyes shining darkly. ‘Do not imagine that, if you persist, I shall propose more: I will not. The piece is pretty, the gemstone sparkles— but it is still a mere bauble: a toy, a glinting nothingness. Can you not be content with what I am offering? Five gold pieces. How often can someone of your nature expect to gain such a sum?’
‘What do you mean by my “nature”?’ asked Ballas, scowling.
‘Every creature has its habitat,’ said Black. ‘Fishes dwell in water, scorpions inhabit the desert. Why? Because they have no choice. Their nature demands it of them; they belong nowhere else. So it is with men. Some belong in mansions. Others in the gutter. You, my friend, are of the latter sort. Your habitat is that of the rat. Of the stray dog. Do not fight against it. You can change it no more than an eagle can shun the sky.’
‘You insult me,’ said Ballas.
‘I merely state the truth,’ replied the merchant evenly.
‘The truth?’ Ballas’s temper flared. The merchant had pushed him too far. For some perverse reason, Black had chosen to taunt him. ‘The truth?’ repeated Ballas. ‘I’ll give you a truth.’
Surging to his feet, he drew back his fist. In his rage, he wanted to punch Black. To smash his skull into shards, as he had smashed the animals’ skulls in the museum.
Black sprang out of his chair, unsheathing a knife as he did so. The long curved blade flashed. Ballas hesitated. Gramiche rose from the divan, clutching a short-bladed dagger.
‘It is wisest,’ said Black softly, ‘if you leave.’ The merchant looked at Ballas calmly. ‘Go—and take the bauble with you.’
Ballas snatched up the disc. ‘You are a fool,’ he said. ‘I shall offer this to someone else. The loss is yours, merchant.’
Turning, he strode from the room.
Carrande Black’s office door slammed shut. The merchant heard loud bootsteps, accompanied by muttered curses, descending the stairs to the warehouse floor.
‘Follow him,’ he said, sheathing his knife.
‘Master?’ Gramiche asked, uncertain what Black intended.
‘I honestly believed he would have settled for five gold pieces.’ Black moved to the window. ‘Perhaps he would have done—if he had been more calm. Perhaps he would not.’ He shrugged. ‘Who can tell? With every passing day, I grow more amazed at the greed of man. And it is most pronounced in the lazy, the squalid … the unworthy. Did you see the gemstone sparkle?’
‘I did,’ said Gramiche. ‘Its beauty surprised me. Where do you suppose he found it?’
‘That is hardly important,’ said Black, opening the curtains. ‘Only its future is of rel
evance. I would like to have that gemstone, Gramiche. He claimed that it was unique. And though he was mistaken, I still desire it … Find out where he has taken lodgings. Or, at least, where he is dossing for the night. I will summon Lukas and Ragrialle.’
Gramiche moved to the door. ‘Master, you could have easily afforded fifteen gold pieces. Yet you refused to pay …’
‘Such a sum, in the hands of such a man, would arouse suspicion—particularly from the Papal Wardens. They would grow curious: has he robbed a clergyman? A mendicant? A merchant, even? When they extracted the truth from him, things might have become dangerous for me.’
‘The man has clearly stolen the disc,’ said Gramiche, frowning. ‘And, true, it is thought criminal to buy stolen goods. But you are a friend of the Blessed Masters. Surely a blind eye would be turned.’
‘Maybe,’ murmured Black. ‘Maybe not. It is not wise to leave such things to chance. The Masters expect discretion from me. If I grow careless, if I draw attention to myself …’ He shook his head. ‘We shall not take any chances.’
He fell silent. Boots stamped along the paving slabs below. A thick-shouldered bearlike figure shambled down the street.
‘He is walking northwards,’ said Black. ‘Do not lose him. And do not let him see you. We shall take the disc from him; then we shall take his life. It is safer for us that way. Perhaps that is our age’s hallmark: the cleanest transaction, the bargain least likely to incriminate, is not that which passes between one merchant and another—but the one between the killer and the killed. Now go.’
With a bow, Gramiche vanished through the door.
Carrande Black exhaled. Then he closed the curtains.
In his lodging room in the Scarlet Star, Ballas sat upon his pallet-bed, a wine flagon in his hand.
Except for moonlight seeping around the shutters’ edges, the room was pitch dark. This did not trouble the big man. If a thousand candles burned and the shutters were flung open, he would still see only what he presently saw: Carrande Black’s office, furnished with riches.
And the merchant himself: his thin, dark-eyed face floated in Ballas’s vision like a vile apparition. In his mind’s ear the merchant’s spiteful, pretentious talk of the habitats of man rang out, over and over. Your habitat is that of the rat. Of the stray dog.