by Ian Graham
Ballas grasped the little man’s wrist. Pulling down on it and simultaneously rising swiftly, he crashed the top of his head into Gramiche’s face. Black’s henchman gave a muted cry. Spinning, Ballas drove a right hook into his jaw. Gramiche dropped, sprawling upon the ground.
Carrande Black spurred his mount towards Ballas.
As he drew close he halted. He jerked the reins, and the horse reared up. The creature’s black form blotted out the stars. Its hooves flailed, and solid steel cracked against Ballas’s forehead.
Pain shot through Ballas’s skull.
Stumbling against the wall, he vomited. Blood poured into his eyes. Wiping it away with his sleeve, he saw Carrande Black dismount.
Whipping open his cape, the merchant approached.
‘You have had a run of good luck,’ he said, unsheathing a long-bladed dagger. ‘Perhaps I am partly responsible. Ragrialle and Lukas are slow-witted. I ought to have sent better men. As for Gramiche—for all his virtues, he is not, and never will be, a killer.’
Seizing Ballas’s jaw, Black slammed the big man’s head back against the wall.
‘Pray to your vermin-god, my friend. Let us hope it pities you.’ Black lifted the knife—then footsteps echoed along the thoroughfare. His dark gaze flickered sideways.
Ballas saw his opportunity. Grasping the back of Black’s neck, he slammed his forehead into the merchant’s nose. Black gave a grunt of pain. Ballas grabbed his wrist, dragging down his hand. Slowly, he wrenched the point of the blade round towards Black’s own stomach. The merchant squirmed, his eyes panic-lit.
‘Release me,’ he said, scarcely able to breathe.
Blood was still seeping into Ballas’s eyes. He could no longer see Black. Yet he gripped him tightly … so tightly that
Black could not move. The dagger inched closer to the merchant’s belly.
‘Please,’ said Black, his tone suddenly desperate. ‘I have money …’
Ballas forced the dagger into Black’s stomach and, angling it up towards his heart, kept on pushing. The merchant gave a rasping gurgle. Warm blood trickled over Ballas’s hand. Black grew limp, then slid to the ground.
The footsteps that had distracted Black came closer. Ballas wiped the blood from his eyes. Three Papal Wardens ran over. One held a blazing torch.
‘He tried to murder me,’ said Ballas, pointing at Carrande Black.
A Warden punched Ballas in the face. Then another hit him—hard—in the gut.
‘Wait! You must understand—’ Out of the corner of his eye Ballas saw Gramiche scrambling to his feet. The little man ran off into the darkness. A Warden gave chase.
‘Yes, capture him! He’s the—’ A skull-jarring punch to the head. Dizziness flooded over Ballas. His knees sagged. For the second time that evening he spun into unconsciousness.
When Ballas awoke, he was being dragged towards a long, low building of black brick.
His hoof-split forehead had stopped bleeding. Dried blood caked his face. His limbs felt heavy. He didn’t think that, even if the Wardens released him, he would be able to stand. Vomit soaked his beard. His vision swam in and out of focus.
They halted at a small arched portal. A grey-eyed Warden rapped sharply on the door.
‘What is this place?’ Ballas asked groggily.
‘You cannot guess?’ The Warden laughed. It was a humourless, cruel sound. ‘You have murdered a man; his blood stains your hands—and you cannot guess where we, the Wardens, are taking you?’
‘What? I’ve murdered no one! The bastard tried to kill me. I didn’t bloody murder him—just defended myself.’
‘There are many jails in Soriterath,’ continued the Warden. ‘Some are less pleasant than others. This is one of the worst.’
The door swung open. The Wardens manhandled Ballas along a gloomy corridor.
‘But do not be downhearted: you may not be here long. The courts of Soriterath are the briskest in Druine. It is said that a murderer can be convicted before his victim’s corpse has cooled.’
‘I am not a murderer,’ hissed Ballas. ‘A killer, maybe—but only because I had to be. I was attacked. Don’t you understand? Carrande Black was trying to kill me. Must a man stand still and let another butcher him? I ain’t cattle. I ain’t a pig in a charnel house—’
‘Save such protests for your trial,’ said the Warden gruffly.
They bundled Ballas into a small cell. The ceiling was low, the floor wet with the previous occupant’s urine. A stench of faeces assailed Ballas’s nostrils. The big man’s gorge rose. ‘Sweet grief,’ he muttered.
The Wardens fastened manacles around his wrists and ankles. Then they left the cell. The door slammed shut. A heavy bolt grated across.
Ballas stood in the darkness.
‘I’m not a murderer!’ he shouted. ‘Do you hear? The knife I used on Black was his own—and he would’ve used it on me. Is that too complicated for you? Listen to me!’ He jerked on his manacles. The chains rattled taut, tugging against the wall in which they were secured. ‘I saved my own life—that’s all I did. That is not a crime! That is not a crime!’
Ballas sagged back against the wall, then slid to the floor. His wounded head bled again. He pointed to the torn flesh. There was no one to see him do so—yet he jabbed a thick finger towards the wound. ‘Isn’t this evidence enough?’ Thick syrupy blood oozed down his face. It seeped through his beard on to his lips and felt like it was scalding him.
He felt unutterably tired. He lay down on the slick stones. He closed his eyes. A jumble of images swarmed through his mind. He saw the iron disc. And he glimpsed moonlight … a vague blue-silver shape … that flickered in his mind’s eye, then vanished.
Then Ballas saw Carrande Black. He felt the dagger sinking into the merchant’s guts. It had been a good feeling. The best feeling. The sudden ease of movement, as the blade pierced through the feeble resistance of the outer flesh—it had thrilled Ballas, almost as much as shooting his seed into a whore’s joxy.
Yet it had also damned him.
Chapter 5
And these four Pilgrims wandering, knowing not
Of one another, yet each servant
To the same master, each suffering
Horrors of fire and hail, and the wickedness
Of unbelievers …
Using a golden-handled knife, Blessed Master Godwin Muirthan cut through the ribbon that bound together the sheaf of parchments. In the autumnal sunlight that poured through the window of his chamber high in the Esklarion Sacros, Muirthan spread the documents over his desk.
In his fifty-seventh year, he was the youngest of the Blessed Masters. In some ways he seemed youthful for his age. His hair, falling to the nape of his neck, was obsidian-black— expect for grey patches at the temples. He was very tall, very solid of shoulder. His physique was that of a farm labourer, not a clergyman.
In other ways, though, his true age was apparent. His face was jowly and his expression severe. His mouth was perpetually downturned—as if everything inspired distaste.
He was not garbed in a priest’s blue robes. He wore the blood scarlet befitting his status as a Blessed Master.
Around Muirthan’s neck hung a Scarrendestin pendant. This too differed from those of ordinary priests. Theirs were triangles of brass. The Masters’ pendants were fashioned from red gold.
Muirthan scanned the documents.
Each bore news from a different part of Druine. Each was tediously predictable. Long ago Muirthan had learned that, contrary to holy teachings, man was not a species of infinite variety. It was said that the creator-god had distanced man from the animals by making every human soul unique. This was untrue. Its falsity was evident in the documents, in the repetitious events they described. In the famine-struck eastern provinces, citizens had rioted, demanding grain. In the northern regions, where plague had struck, women—both elderly and young—had been imprisoned by their fellows and burned alive, for the populace believed witchcraft had created the sickness.
In a western village, a spate of birth deformities— probably caused by fouled river water—had frightened the locals into feverish piety: they thronged the church, petitioning the Four for help …
Such responses were predictable.
Riots, scapegoating, grovelling to deities—they had occurred countless times before, for exactly the same reasons. Plunge a man into particular circumstances, and he would behave in a manner almost identical to that of his fellows. Life, Muirthan believed, was but a recycling of the same events, over and over. Only in repetition was man infinite.
The last parchment detailed events in Soriterath. It described every happening of ecclesiastical significance: the deaths of priests and theologians, alleged miracles, outbreaks of heresy …
Muirthan’s gaze alighted on a particular entry. He read it once. Paused. Read it again.
Then he rang the small bronze bell on the corner of his desk.
The door opened. A boy in a servant’s garb entered.
‘Blessed Master,’ he said, bowing. ‘How may I serve you?’
‘Find the other Masters,’ said Muirthan flatly. ‘They must convene in the Ninth Hall before the turning of this hourglass.’ He indicated the item concerned where it stood on the desk. Both its glass bulbs at present held the same amount of line sand. ‘It is a matter of prime importance.’
The servant nodded, then left the chamber.
Half an hour later, Godwin Muirthan strode into the Ninth Hall. On the wall hung tapestries of the customary religious sort: woven in glittering blue and gold threads, they depicted the Trials of the Pilgrims, and their melding upon Scarrendestin. Dark blue carpets covered the floor. Around a long oval table of richly polished mahogany sat the other Blessed Masters.
Muirthan’s gaze flicked over them.
Some were half sunken in infirmity. Skeletal, thin-fleshed, they belonged wholly to neither life nor death. They existed in a type of breathing limbo. Yet their physical frailty did not affect their mental strength. They were sharp-minded, Muirthan knew. And competent. Many had been Masters for several decades. The Church’s business, and that of Druine, were for them reflexive matters.
Other Masters, like Muirthan, were younger. Yet there was not a callow man among them. They held dominion over every citizen’s spirit—and over the physical world in which he or she lived.
Such power—absolute, unwavering—hardened the heart, and mind, of every Master.
Within a year of his appointment, a fresh Master would grow jaded. Wonderment, mystery … they perished quickly. Only understanding remained: cold, bare, hard-edged understanding. Muirthan recognised this as true for himself. He believed it was true for the others.
Yet today he felt a pang of unease.
He strode to a table alongside an arched window. He poured himself a goblet of water. Then he gazed beyond the Sacros’s outer wall, to the Penance Oak.
‘Why have you gathered us, Godwin?’ asked a Blessed Master.
Muirthan turned.
It was Hengriste who had spoken. Of all the Masters, he was the oldest. His pate was hairless and liver-spotted. Above his white beard, his cheeks were hollow. ‘Is there trouble in Druine? A dilemma that needs resolving … a wound that needs caring for?’
‘A dilemma, a wound—yes, both are true,’ said Muirthan. ‘Carrande Black has been murdered.’
A Master murmured, ‘Carrande Black?’
‘He is a merchant,’ said Hengriste sharply. ‘He is also a tavern-owner and a whoremonger. And he imports visionary’s root, for which we have a use. He sells it to us cheaply. In return, we grant him immunity from prosecution and tax him only lightly.’ He looked to Muirthan. ‘Has the killer been caught?’
Muirthan nodded. ‘As we speak, he is in the prison on Shackle Row. He killed Black outside the Scarlet Star—a tavern half a mile across the city. Our Wardens heard the sounds of violence, and captured him. But only after he had slain the merchant. It is not yet known why he killed Black. A Warden says he claims it was self-defence …’
‘Are there witnesses?’ asked Hengriste.
‘The tavern-master of the Star said he heard fighting in the lodging room of Black’s killer. But he did not investigate. Perhaps he was fearful for his own safety; I don’t know.
‘There was certainly at least one other man involved. When the Wardens arrived, he fled. As yet, he has not been caught. It isn’t known whether he was Black’s ally or the killer’s. If any others had a hand in the deed, there is no trace of them.’
He sipped at his water.
‘Our predicament is clear. Carrande Black was not our sole supplier of visionary’s root. He was not even one of the largest. But if we fail to deal properly with his death, other root bringers may get nervous.’
‘You are saying, Godwin,’ began Hengriste, tilting his head, ‘that if we deal too gently with his killer—if, for instance, he is found innocent of the crime; or, if convicted of it, he is granted an easy death—they will feel we are not committed to their well-being?’
‘By nature, root smugglers are cautious,’ said Muirthan. They are instinctively suspicious and mistrustful. If they believe their loyalty to us is not reciprocated, they will be reluctant to trade with us. We must make it appear that we consider Black’s death a serious matter.’ He shrugged. ‘If we do so, not only will we prevent doubts creeping into their minds but we may also consolidate our alliance. If a man of their own sort is killed, for whatever reasons, they will perceive the murderer’s punishment—if it is extreme—as a gesture of good faith. Their allegiance to us will thus be strengthened.’ He drew a breath. ‘And that would not be a bad thing. The caliphs of the East are patrolling their waters, seeking western vessels laden with the root. For root bringers, these are dangerous times. We must treat them carefully. I need not remind you how much we need visionary’s root.’
‘And for this extreme punishment,’ said Hengriste, ‘you have something in mind?’
‘When Carrande Black agreed to import root, we granted him Church Protection. His murder, therefore, may be interpreted as a holy crime.’
‘You would put his killer upon the Oak?’
‘The other root bringers would understand that he was upon the branches not because he was, in any meaningful sense, guilty of a holy crime. They would look upon his death simply as fearful retribution for an act that we, the Blessed Masters, treat seriously. From this, they would take reassurance.’
Blessed Master Hengriste nodded. ‘You talk sense, Godwin. I will consent to such an action. In theory, we ought to put this killer in front of a Papal Court. That is, we ought to try him ourselves. But I do not believe that is necessary. Whether his crime was justifiable or not, he must be condemned as guilty. For the sake of the Church, the verdict is preordained. By nightfall, his head will be nailed to the Oak. Our root bringers will be happy. And of course, Nu’khterin will continue to be of use to us.’ The old Master raised a finger. ‘However, the man must be interrogated. We must learn fully of his connection with Black. Did he truly slay the merchant in self-defence? If so, why was Black pursuing him? It may be of no significance. Then again …’
‘Are we unanimous, then,’ said Muirthan, ‘that the killer— whether he has killed with good cause or not—should be put upon the Oak?’
The Blessed Masters all agreed.
All night, Ballas had remained in the cell. Despite his fatigue, he had scarcely slept.
At first, rage had kept him wakeful. He wanted to revenge himself upon Carrande Black. It was the merchant’s fault that
Ballas was manacled in a tiny stone box that stank of other men’s terror. If Black hadn’t tried to steal the disc, he would still be alive—and Ballas would be free.
For this, the merchant deserved punishment. Over and over again. Black was dead; his corpse probably lay in a Chapel of Rest somewhere. Yet Ballas was filled by a frustrating urge to kill him again. And again. And again. In his mind, he recalled the easy entry of the dagger into Black’s guts. He
wished now that he had thrust the blade in more slowly. That he had driven it in far higher, behind the merchant’s ribs. That the merchant hadn’t died so quickly … that he’d lain on the ground for a long time, writhing like a damaged insect.
Eventually, Ballas’s rage faded. He felt weak, tired. He considered his own future. He would be tried for murder. If found innocent, he would be set free. If declared guilty, he would be put to death. He considered briefly the different modes of execution. He might be hauled on to a gallows platform, in front of Soriterath’s citizens, and hanged. Or set face down on a wooden block, so that a red-masked executioner could drive an axe blade through his neck. He could even be locked in a cage elemental: a circular metal cage, dangling on a chain by the city gates, where slow starvation and exposure to wind, rain, hail and frost would gradually but inexorably kill him.
A bolt grated and the cell door was opened. A group of Papal Wardens dragged Ballas out of the prison building, into hard noon light. After hours in blackness, the light seemed to sear the membrane from his eyes.
Grimacing, he was loaded on to a cart, then driven across Soriterath to Papal Square.
The cart rattled towards the Esklarion Sacros. The vast building, salamander red, sparkled in the sharp light. The four huge towers thrust skywards.
‘You are taking me to the Sacros?’ asked Ballas, confused.
‘Yes,’ replied a Warden—a brown-haired man, with a chill-pinkened nose.
‘Then you’re making a mistake. I’m a murderer … that is, I am to be tried for murder. I’m not a heretic. And when I killed, I used a knife. Not a bloody magical charm.’
‘You have committed a holy crime,’ the Warden said. He touched a scroll, tucked into his belt. ‘Your Document of Accusation,’ he explained. ‘I presented it to the prison-keeper, to secure your transfer to the Sacros’s cells. You are no longer to be investigated for murder. Rather, your crime is far more grievous. It is Divine Slaughter. Are you familiar with the term?’