Monument

by Ian Graham

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I’ve had some poor news,’ said Ballas, shrugging. He looked sharply at the barge-master. ‘Yesterday evening, I found out that my sister has fallen ill. Some blood taint or other; I don’t know exactly what. And if I did, it would make no difference, for I’m not a physician, merely someone who loves his sister and wants to be at her side when she perishes … and perish she will. From what I’ve been told, her malady can’t be cured. She is feverish, all night she is tormented by appalling visions—demons, phantoms, the undead. She suffers fits, too. And it is all anyone can do to stop her from biting off her own tongue …’

  ‘It sounds as if she’s got spindlebrack,’ said the barge-master, ‘or maybe red-sleeper. They both show the symptoms you described, and neither can be treated. All a physician can do is lessen the victim’s pain. They say such illnesses provide the worst ways of dying …’ He grimaced. ‘Forgive me. I am speaking tactlessly.’

  ‘Barge-master,’ said Ballas plainly, ‘my sister dwells twenty miles outside Redreathe. Please, grant me a place upon your barge.’ As he said this, the barge-master winced, as if suddenly uncomfortable. ‘I ask only so that I may be with her. And I wouldn’t be an idle passenger. I’ll take the oars like every other man. I’m broad of shoulder and, in truth, a little heavy labour will help take my mind off my worries …’

  ‘My friend,’ interrupted the barge-master, ‘I pity you. Truly, were it possible, I would not merely offer you a place upon a rowing bench but would order my men to work at double-speed, so that you could be with your sister in good time. But every bench is taken. I have already promised places to a dozen men. Forgive me,’ he said, his hands spread wide in a gesture of helplessness, ‘but I am a man of my word. I cannot withdraw my promise. And many of my oarsmen have to provide for their families. These are lean times; winter is coming, and a ha’penny may be the difference between hunger and a warm meal.’

  ‘I am desperate,’ said Ballas. ‘If there is anything I can do to—’

  ‘I am sorry,’ the barge-master broke in. ‘I can suggest only that you wait for another barge to pass through.’

  Ballas sighed. ‘Very well. That is what I’ll do. I hope that one comes quickly, that’s all.’

  Turning, he walked back between the storehouses. He could not wait for a second barge to moor at the docks. Dawn was breaking; he did not wish to be seen in broad daylight by more people than was necessary. He scowled. He had no choice but to travel overland. He would have to steal another horse. Once more, he’d need to follow the clandestine routes that led away from Soriterath. Moving quickly, he started back toward the Black Bull. A stable adjoined the tavern. From there, he would pilfer a mount. Then he would ride—

  He halted.

  Brisk footsteps rang out. A young man, wearing a thick leather coat, was half running, half walking towards the jetty. For a moment Ballas hesitated. Then he trotted towards him.

  ‘Begging your pardon,’ he said, drawing close ‘but do you row upon The Otter?’

  Slowing, the man looked at Ballas suspiciously. ‘Yes, I do,’ he said, nodding. ‘What of it?’

  Ballas did not say anything more. Instead, he drove his fist into the oarsman’s face, hard. The oarsman stumbled backwards—then fell as two brisk punches knocked his head first left, then right. He lay upon his back, gazing sightlessly at the sky. Stooping, Ballas grasped his ankles and dragged him into an empty storehouse. He found a short coil of rope and tied the man’s wrists and ankles together. Then he rooted through his pockets and found four copper pennies. He slipped them into his own pocket.

  A short time later, Ballas returned to the jetty. He sat at the water’s edge, fifty paces from The Otter. He uncorked his whisky flagon and stared sorrowfully into the river. Eventually, the barge-master walked over.

  ‘Good whisky, is it?’ he asked.

  ‘Foul,’ said Ballas. ‘Liquid horseshit. But so what? I’m not interested in its taste. It brings numbness—and that is all I ask of it.’

  ‘It also supplies warmth,’ said the barge-master. ‘Which is not to be sneered it. As I said before, the morning is fresh. So I will strike a bargain with you. Share the whisky, and you may have a place upon my barge.’

  ‘Truly?’ said Ballas, in mock surprise.

  ‘I am a man of my word, as I said,’ replied the barge-master. ‘But it seems that others are not. One who swore he would work for me has not arrived. Perhaps he got a little too drunk last night. Maybe he has abandoned his profession. Pah! It does not matter. I can wait no longer. There is a place for you, if you want it.’

  Getting to his feet, Ballas proffered the whisky flagon. The barge-master took a deep gulp. Then he shuddered. ‘By the Four’s balls, that is as bad as you claimed. Still,’ he pressed the flagon back into Ballas’s hand, ‘take a mouthful yourself, and I’ll consider our contract sealed.’

  Ballas did as he was asked.

  ‘There,’ said the barge-master. ‘Now you are one of the crew. My name is Culgrogan.’ He proffered his hand. Ballas shook it: Culgrogan’s grip was firm. ‘What is your name, my friend?’

  Ballas hesitated. ‘Gadner,’ he said at last.

  ‘Ha! A religious man, are you?’

  Ballas frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Gadner—wasn’t that the first name of Gatarix, who tried to slay the Four?’

  It was. Walking towards the barge, Ballas thought it an appropriate name. Like Gatarix, he had attacked a holy figure. Like Gatarix, there would be those who sought his death.

  Yet the name was well chosen in a different way. A way Ballas did not—could not—suspect.

  All day, pausing only at noon, they rowed along Merefed River. The watercourse wound through some of the wildest moorland in Druine. Much of it was uninhabited; and this suited Ballas. If Wardens were to appear, he would see them long before they spotted him. And if they did recognise him, he would need only to leap from the barge and swim to the opposite side of the river to avoid them.

  Ballas worked hard at the oars. He was unaccustomed to such physical exertion. Yet he found it strangely gratifying. Lulled by the rhythm of each stroke, and the soft lapping of water against the hull, he sank into a contented daze. The other oarsmen spoke among themselves. Their chatter was trivial; they talked of whores, and drinking, and the bets they had placed the previous evening on a series of bare-knuckle fights.

  Only when night fell and they moored at the small village of Barrelhand did Ballas start to feel pain. As he rose from the rowing bench, he noticed that his back ached. His backside too throbbed; and fluid-fat blisters covered his palms. He cursed softly.

  ‘A problem?’ asked the barge-master.

  ‘I’ve worked too hard,’ muttered the big man.

  ‘From such infirmities,’ said Culgrogan, gazing at Ballas’s blisters, ‘springs healthy pride.’ He clapped Ballas on the shoulder. ‘And thirst. You are a drinker, yes?’

  ‘What true man is not?’

  ‘There is a fine tavern up this way,’ said the barge-master, pointing along a lane. ‘They serve the worst of all whiskies; wine that bears the flavour of the grape-treader’s feet; and ale that might’ve been ladled from a pisspot. But after a long day, each tastes as fine as nectar.’ He climbed on to the jetty. ‘There are whores, too. Nice plump village girls. The air here is clean and the women grow strong and happy. Isn’t that right, lads?’

  The oarsmen responded with laughter.

  Ballas stepped from the barge. ‘I thought you claimed these were family men.’

  ‘They are,’ said Culgrogan. ‘But when a fellow weds and brings children into the world, do his bollocks shrivel, hm? Does he cease to be a man? Of course not. His urges persist. Thus he does the virtuous thing: he ruts with a whore.’

  Ballas was intrigued. ‘Whoring is virtuous?’

  The barge-master nodded keenly. ‘For two reasons. Firstly, a man may hump a whore—but he will not fall in love with her. He knows she is unsavoury. And besides
: she has already revealed her secrets to him. So he is not interested in romancing her. He merely lies with her, then returns home to his wife.

  ‘Secondly—and for every man in Druine this is vital—if he is lying with a whore, he is not lying with another man’s wife. Thus we may all trust each other … we may look upon one another not as rivals, but as brothers.’ Throwing back his head, Culgrogan cackled. ‘A strange world, is it not, when men act peaceably towards one another not because of the Pilgrim Church’s teachings but thanks to the merits of whores?’

  A click-cick of footsteps echoed along the lane. The barge-master grew suddenly still. He tilted his head, listening. Then a broad grin wreathed his face.

  ‘Ha! Is it not the greatest thing, to have no need of a whore’s services? That is, to have a lady who will perform a whore’s role—yet demand no payment? Isn’t that the best arrangement? Here she is, my boys: the Red Flower of Barrelhand.’

  A woman stepped out of the shadows. She wore a long white skirt, and a blouse of tight-clinging linen. Her eyes were deep, dark, and glinted in the moonlight. Dusk’s mystery pooled under her high cheekbones. She had a wide mouth, her lips blood red with lip-daub. Her black hair billowed outwards in a gypsyish frizz. A scarlet-petalled flower nestled behind her ear. ‘Culgrogan,’ she said, approaching the barge-master, ‘you must keep your voice down! I am not some plaything to be flaunted in front of your companions.’

  Yet her broad smile suggested she enjoyed such attention.

  ‘But, my love, I am a proud man!’ Culgrogan protested. ‘Ought a fellow to conceal the source of his joy? Is it proper for a horseman to keep stabled his finest filly? Must a falconer keep his best bird cooped up?’

  ‘Must you liken me to animals?’ asked Red Flower, looping her arm around his waist.

  ‘But if our pleasure is animal,’ began Culgrogan, ‘if tonight we become a two-backed beast …’ He left the sentence unfinished. Smiling broadly, he turned to the oarsmen. ‘Have a fine evening, my friends. I will see you at the break of dawn. Assuming my lady does not, in the fashion of desert-dwelling spiders, devour my head after—’

  ‘Be silent!’ said Red Flower, covering his mouth with her hand.

  They disappeared back along the lane. Behind Ballas, an oarsman said, ‘It is a pleasant thing to see husband and wife so devoted.’

  ‘It is,’ said another. ‘One day, I hope to witness it.’

  ‘You mean—’

  ‘She is Culgrogan’s mistress.’ A pained tone was to be heard in this third oarsman’s voice. ‘The Four know how he manages it but in every dock there is some ripe lady awaiting him. Of course, they are already wed—but that does not trouble Culgrogan. He thinks of himself as a schoolboy, robbing apples from an orchard. Or a poacher, lifting trout from a stream.’

  ‘Yet he gave that talk about the virtues of whores … how they prevent men stealing others’ wives.’

  ‘Once I mentioned that to him,’ said the third oarsman. ‘In this, as in all things, he was pragmatic. If no man ever lay with another’s wife, no man would fear being cuckolded. Thus there would be no need for whores. But what would become of those girls who, pretty but frail-minded, could find no other profession? They would starve. So Culgrogan makes mistresses of many, and cuckolds of the same number, and a few young women can live comfortably. Did the Four not teach that even minorities must be protected? Culgrogan is a holy adulterer. His fornication is an act of devotion.’

  The other oarsmen laughed.

  ‘He is a sophist,’ said one.

  ‘What man is not,’ replied another, ‘when seeking to justify unjustifiable pleasures?’

  They followed the lane to a small black-fronted tavern. In a crowded common room, they found a long table and settled down at it. The tavern-master brought whisky, wine, and ale. The men drank, gossiped and laughed; crude jokes were told, and every oarsman soon sank into happy, raucous drunkenness. A few whores drifted in. For a time, they conversed with the oarsmen. They spoke slyly, as if flirting: yet, unlike true flirts, their approaches ended with honest copulation. Oarsman after oarsman stumbled upstairs with a girl on his arm.

  Ballas, however, abstained. He was tired and his body was sore. He wanted merely to drink, and relax. Seated apart from the others, at the table-end, he sipped first at wine, then whisky.

  After a while, the barge-master returned. The oarsmen cheered.

  ‘How was she?’ asked one.

  Culgrogan grinned. ‘A delight, as always.’ Stretching out his arms, as if waking from a long sleep, he slumped tiredly into a chair. ‘A magnificent girl, is Red Flower. I could almost fall in love with her.’ He poured himself a cup of wine. ‘Yet I doubt I could manage too many nights of such savage passion. Her bedroom manners are those of a whirlwind. She seizes and shakes and slaps a fellow; he finds himself flung this way and that. I swear I can feel bruises rising.’ He drained his cup, then replenished it. ‘But, in small bursts, such violence is invigorating. To Red Flower,’ he said, raising the cup.

  For a time, Culgrogan made small talk with the oarsmen. Then the tavern door slammed open. Cold air gusted inside.

  What happened next happened quickly.

  A broad, blond-bearded man appeared on the threshold, flanked by two companions. He swept the room with a predatory pale-blue-eyed gaze. His stare locked on Culgrogan. The newcomer’s face reddened. Oblivious, Culgrogan continued drinking—until the blond-bearded man strode over, seized the barge-master’s tunic collar and yanked him from his stool. Culgrogan struck the sawdust-strewn floor with a yelp. The blond-bearded man kicked his head, hard. Once, twice, three times. Then he hauled Culgrogan up on to his feet. He punched him twice in the face.

  Culgrogan swayed. ‘What … ?’ he mumbled through blood-slick lips.

  ‘You piece of horseshit,’ said the blond-bearded man.

  ‘Who are you?’ stammered Culgrogan. ‘I don’t understand—’

  ‘You are the man from the barge,’ shouted his assailant. ‘The one who’s been fornicating with Felishia! Do not deny it. She has confessed everything!’

  ‘You are mistaken,’ began Culgrogan.

  ‘A man knows when his wife is deceiving him,’ snapped the other man. ‘He knows, too, when she has been pleasured.’

  He unsheathed a short-bladed dagger. ‘I have seen it before— many times. She has become a habit, has she? Well, if you cannot temper your lusts …’ Drawing back his hand, he thrust the dagger forward, aiming at Culgrogan’s crotch. The barge-master pranced backwards, terrified.

  ‘Sweet grief! Be reasonable!’

  ‘The hour for that has passed,’ began the enraged man— then he staggered as a wine flagon hurled by Ballas struck his head.

  Ballas rose to his feet. The blond-bearded man whirled, his eyes blazing. ‘You would defend this maker of cuckolds?’

  Ballas did not reply. He was not inclined to argue with strangers. Springing forward, he struck the man’s nose savagely. It burst open in a spray of blood. The cuckolded man stumbled back, but quickly regained his balance. Slashing his dagger back and forth, he came forward. He lunged, jabbing the blade towards Ballas’s throat. Catching his antagonist’s wrist, Ballas rammed his forehead against the cuckold’s already damaged nose. Then he delivered two bone-crushing blows to the man’s jaw. The cuckold sagged, but Ballas did not relinquish the grip on his wrist. Slowly, he twisted the blond-bearded man’s arm. Tendons popped. The man howled—

  Then one of his companions ran at Ballas. As he came close, Ballas swung up his right boot, connecting perfectly with his attacker’s crotch. The man pitched sideways, wheezing; Ballas smashed a fist into his cheekbone.

  The angry cuckold’s second companion took a step forward. Then he halted as Ballas shot him a dangerous glance.

  Ballas returned his attention to the injured cuckold. And finished the work he had started. Very slowly, he twisted the man’s arm. More tendons snapped, some cracking as loud as whip-strikes. Only when the limb felt utterly loose
did Ballas let go.

  The man lay sprawled on the sawdust, his arm flopping at an obscene angle. Tiny convulsions shook his body.

  The tavern-master stepped forward. ‘Enough, enough,’ he said—even though the fight had clearly finished. He was tough-looking, tall, with steel-grey hair. Yet he turned pale at the sight of the blond-bearded man’s arm. ‘Sweet mercy,’ he breathed. ‘You two.’ He gestured sharply at the man’s companions. ‘Take him out of here. Find someone to tend his injuries.’ He looked at Ballas. ‘And you: can you be trusted?’

  ‘If no one else attacks my mates,’ said Ballas, breathing heavily.

  The tavern-master laughed humourlessly. ‘I do not believe that is likely.’

  The injured man’s friends carried him from the tavern. Ballas returned to the table. The barge-master sat beside him, dabbing at his split lips with a dishrag provided by the tavern-master.

  ‘You fight well,’ he said, slurring slightly. ‘What is your trade? Soldier? Pugilist?’

  ‘I’ve had many trades,’ Ballas answered, shrugging. ‘I drift from one to the next.’

  ‘Well, I am in your debt, my friend.’

  ‘Nah, you’re not,’ said Ballas. ‘I am relying upon you to take me to Redreathe. If he … if Red Flower’s husband had killed you, I’d be at a loss.’

  ‘Even so,’ murmured the barge-master. He rubbed his split lips cautiously. Then he winced. ‘Ah, that hurts. I tell you, if he had expended as much passion upon Red Flower as he did upon me, she would not have strayed. She would be a very happy woman.’

  Ballas looked across the common room. He found himself staring at a brown-eyed whore. Her hair was copper-coloured. A faint flush tinted her cheeks.

  Ballas no longer felt tired. Or sore. The fight had filled him with restless energy. His hands shook. His heart hammered.

  ‘Do you want her?’ asked the barge-master.

  Ballas glanced at him.

  ‘She is yours.’ The barge-master pressed a penny into Ballas’s palm. ‘No matter what you say, I am in your debt. So look upon her as a down payment, yes? Go on. Take her upstairs. You have earned her.’