by Ian Graham
‘Do not hurt me! Please—I am sorry …’
Grasping his shirt collar, Ballas dragged him to his feet.
‘Do not goad me!’ snapped Ballas, wrapping a hand around Crask’s throat. He slammed him against the wall. Crask groaned. Already, he was weeping. ‘It ain’t me who is a betrayer. It ain’t me who broke trust to save his own skin.’ He tightened his grip. ‘Did you feel guilty, when you told the Church about your accomplices? When you gave their names, so yours might avoid being etched on a gravestone?’ Turning, he hurled Crask across the room. The former smuggler crashed into the table. ‘What’d you refuse to do, to save your neck? What’d sicken you so much you’d sooner die?’
Crask lay upon the floor, sobbing. ‘I am not a brave man …’
‘That’s for sure,’ spat Ballas. ‘And you aren’t honourable, either. I tell you now, Crask, fear is no excuse—for anything.’
‘I am not a brave man,’ Crask repeated—and the words fell easily but earnestly from his lips. Ballas sensed that, in the past, he had uttered them often. To himself, of course—for they weren’t words to be spoken aloud. But in solitary moments, when Crask felt ashamed of his betrayals, they were there to lessen his guilt—to make the betrayals somehow ordinary. Someone had once told Ballas that if a man believed it was his nature to be fearful, he would also believe that anything that dispelled his fears was justified—as it was justified for a hungry man to kill for food. Crask wanted his betrayals to appearinevitable. He had betrayed his fellows, and it was beyond his abilities to do otherwise. Thus he couldn’t be blamed. His base actions were merely misfortunes.
Ballas felt himself hating Crask. ‘A man makes up his own mind whether to be brave,’ he said. ‘He reckons up whether it’s worth it or not. You didn’t think it was. That troubles you. If it didn’t, you wouldn’t be bleating that you aren’t brave … that, in truth, you’re a coward by birth, not by intent.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘Your daughter has a stronger heart than you. Do you know that she tried to kill me?’
Crask shook his head.
‘I was impressed.’
‘By someone who would murder you?’
‘There was never a chance she’d succeed. I’m a light sleeper, and she’s as heavy-footed as a sow. She tried and failed. In such circumstances, I can be forgiving.’
‘And because you admired her spirit, you let her live?’
‘Her spirit? No. Her usefulness. She doesn’t fight well— but she doesn’t shy away, either. Sometimes such fighters grow lucky. They kill through vigour, not skill. Your daughter may be one of them. And that makes me laugh.’
‘Laugh?’ asked Crask, puzzled.
‘Aye.’ Ballas nodded. ‘I find it odd that a coward has sired such a woman.’
Crask gestured empty-handedly. ‘I taught her to have the virtues I lack. They are present in herself, though she cannot see that they are absent in me. And she must never know. If she does … As you said once before, she would be broken-hearted.’
‘And you fear that?’ asked Ballas.
‘Yes.’
‘More than any other kind of suffering?’
‘Of course.’ In Crask’s voice there was conviction: he had stated a bald, simple fact.
‘Then there is hope.’
‘Hope?’
‘That you’ll act bravely, one day.’
Footsteps sounded on the stairs.
Getting to his feet, Crask hurriedly wiped the tears from his cheeks. ‘This talk of bravery,’ he said, ‘is but sanctimonious drivel.’
The door opened. Heresh returned, bearing fresh clothing: a pair of leggings and a tunic, spun from the coarsest wool Ballas had ever felt, and a cape of a fabric so thin that it would scarcely keep out the cold. Ballas suspected that the woman had deliberately sought the least comfortable attire she could.
Ballas took off his bloodied clothes and got changed. When he had finished, he said, ‘Gather your belongings. We are leaving.’
‘Where are we to go?’ asked Heresh, folding her arms.
‘It is better, daughter,’ said Crask, putting a hand upon her forearm, ‘not to ask questions. He is not a man who enjoys speaking.’ Disdain crept into Crask’s voice. ‘He is a man of deeds, not words. You must have learned that by now.’
‘Father, are you all right?’ She peered closely at Crask. ‘Your face is red, and your eyes—’
‘I took a tumble,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘That is all.’
Heresh stared coldly at Ballas. The big man tied his cape and raised his hood. Then he led them out of the tavern, to the park. The day was clear, the sky a sharp winter-blue. The sun burned without real warmth. They were the only souls there. Grunting, Ballas sat down on a long stone bench. And waited for Jonas Elsefar to appear.
Long minutes passed. Across the city, a church bell tolled noon. Muttering, Ballas interlocked his fingers. He continued to wait. And wait …
Sighing, Crask kneeled by a patch of frost-shrivelled blooms. ‘Golden jagwort,’ he said, prodding one with a fingertip, ‘Sleeping Morahnim, Galgrante, Coris, Blue-tear … Bah! These are all squalid plants … all disgusting, and common.’
‘What are we waiting for?’ asked Heresh, suddenly.
‘Jonas Elsefar and I made a bargain,’ said Ballas. ‘I have done his bidding. Now he is to do mine.’
‘Perhaps. Perhaps not. He is not here, is he? What hour did he promise to arrive?’
‘Noon,’ grunted Ballas.
‘Sweet grief! The middle hour has long passed. It seems Elsefar has deceived you.’
‘Be silent.’ Ballas scowled.
‘The cripple is not here. I’d wager everything I have that he will not appear.’
‘I said shut up!’
‘Do as he bids, daughter,’ said Crask, hurrying over.
Ballas got to his feet. He paced around the park, feeling his anger grow, harden. Had the cripple betrayed him? He hadn’t seemed like a deceiver. He was arrogant, self-centred—but a liar? A man without honour?
Ballas looked at the sun. It had edged well past its zenith.
Turning, Ballas said, ‘Come with me.’
Following a jumble of alleyways and backstreets, they walked towards Brewhouse Street. Ballas was determined to find Elsefar. There was a chance that, even though he would no longer be working in the copying house—the previous night’s murders had freed him from such obligations—he might still be dwelling at his old lodgings, those that were provided by his employers.
Moving along an alleyway, Ballas slowed down. Brewhouse Street lay directly ahead. A couple of Wardens patrolled back and forth. By now, Caggerick Blunt’s corpse would have been found. Now that it was the scene of a crime, the copying house would be under guard. That was to be expected. Yet something surprised Ballas. A heavy woodsmoke odour hung in the air. And, faintly, the smell of roasted pork.
Frowning, he peered along Brewhouse Street.
‘Sweet grief,’ he murmured.
Elsefar’s lodgings—the long, single-floored wooden building—had burned to the ground. Nothing remained except a jumble of charred timbers. Wall planks lay toppled flat; tumbled roof beams tilted upwards from grey-black ash. Squinting, Ballas could make out corpses—blackened figures burned fleshless and locked in their death throes.
He stepped back.
‘Go to the Wardens,’ said Ballas, turning to Heresh, ‘and find out what happened.’
‘Like myself, my daughter is being hunted,’ said Crask urgently. ‘And you would send her towards the hounds themselves?’
‘Keep your hood drawn up,’ advised Ballas. ‘They won’t recognise you.’
Her hood raised, Heresh approached a lone Warden. He stood near the lodging hall, gazing at the corpses.
‘Did many perish?’ asked Heresh, moving alongside him.
Blinking, he glanced at her. ‘About two dozen,’ he said. He was a youngish man, and unusually slender for a Warden. He exhaled, breath-vapour mingling with a few strands of smoke.
‘A bad thing,’ he said, shaking his head.
‘It seems somehow worse,’ said Heresh, ‘when men die through accident, not intent. It is so … so absurd.’
‘These men—’ he gestured at the corpses ‘—were not killed by a mishap. They were murdered. A few escaped the fire. Some are in a terrible state; I doubt they’ll see the next dawn. But others are more or less unhurt. And they tell us that the blaze was started on purpose. They know who is to blame, too.’
Heresh’s gaze flickered to the alleyway. She glanced fleetingly at Ballas. In her eyes’ depths he saw suspicion, mistrust— and a type of uncertain dread, as if she suspected him of starting the fire.
‘Who bears the guilt for this deed?’ she asked.
‘A man who, they say, is as twisted in his mind as he is in his body. A copyist and cripple by the name of Jonas Elsefar. His legs are withered, and he moves around on a pair of crutches. As he moves, the ferrules knock against the ground—they make a sound, they say, like the snapping of a crab’s pincers. And this sound was heard last night, moments before the fire started. The survivors have no doubt: the blame is Elsefar’s. When they tried to escape, they found the door was locked. Which is strange, for only during daylight hours, when the lodging hall is empty, is the lock set. They blame Elsefar for that, too.’
‘He sounds like a wicked man …’
‘His crime may run even deeper.’
‘Oh?’
‘Last night, the three men who employed him were murdered. Naturally, the cripple could not be responsible. But it isn’t beyond him to hire an assassin. And we have a suspicion who that might be, as well.’ The Warden handed Heresh a square of parchment. She read it, then glanced up. Ballas thought a little blood had drained from her face.
‘A Decree of Annihilation,’ she said.
He was seen, last night, near a tavern where one of the men was murdered. And, at another victim’s home, half a dozen guards were slaughtered—a feat of incredible violence: violence which is but an echo of his earlier deeds.’ The Warden hesitated. ‘He has killed many Wardens. Whether he is skilful or simply mad, I do not know—but he is dangerous. Do not fear, though,’ he added. ‘Neither he, nor Elsefar, will escape us. Within days, we will have them.’
‘You sound certain.’
‘The city gates are closed,’ replied the Warden. ‘They shall not open until we have him. Except, of course, to allow more of our number to pass through.’
‘Fresh Wardens are coming?’
‘Hundreds. We shall swarm through this city like fire ants, and we shan’t rest until we have apprehended the killer.’ He smiled, his eyes glinting mischievously. ‘To be truthful, all this excites me. How often are Decrees issued? The last was forty years ago. Is this not a thing to tell one’s grandchildren?’
A second Warden appeared, bearing a small mallet. Together, they nailed the Decree to a pole of blackened wood.
Heresh returned to the alley.
‘Did you hear?’ she asked, softly.
‘Yes, every word,’ said Ballas. ‘And it changes nothing.’
‘What … ?!’
‘We must still find Jonas Elsefar,’ said the big man. ‘He must keep his half of our bargain.’
‘And then?’ demanded Crask. ‘The gates are barred! We cannot leave!’
‘We shall think of something,’ said Ballas, shrugging.
For two days, they sought Elsefar. They scoured places where a man such as he—physically frail, and perhaps frightened for his life—might go to ground. Almshouses, dossing halls, taverns that Wardens seldom entered … They visited, it seemed, every such place in the city. Wary of being spotted, Ballas sent Heresh into these establishments, whilst he remained outside with her father. Lugen Crask feared for his daughter’s safety. He feared for his own, too. He no longer confessed such things to Ballas. Perhaps he knew the big man would be unsympathetic. Yet his unease was evident. When Heresh entered Elsefar’s possible bolt-holes. Crask sweated heavily, wringing his hands. Blood drained from his chill-pinkened skin. He looked like a plague victim.
Still Elsefar eluded them.
More Wardens began to arrive at Granthaven. At first their increasing numbers were scarcely noticeable. Ballas glimpsed the occasional extra black tunic, stitched with a blue Scarrendestin symbol. But none of them proved troublesome. It was, if not easy, far from difficult to avoid capture.
Gradually, though, this changed.
After a few more days, the streets were thronging with Wardens. At night, sheltering in a derelict warehouse, Ballas fancied he could hear the city gates creaking open and the noise of firm-soled leather boots stamping through the streets. Like the Warden at the burned-out lodging hall had promised, they surged like ants into the city. Soon, it seemed that every glance revealed a Warden.
One evening, as Heresh slept, Crask broke his silence. He confessed his fear in bitter tones.
‘We shall not find Elsefar,’ he said. ‘In the fairest circumstances, it would be absurd to carry on looking for him. Granthaven is large, and we are few: how are three of us to root him out? But now, with Wardens everywhere … What chance do we have? None.’
He stared expectantly at Ballas.
‘We carry on searching,’ said the big man.
The next day, they did as Ballas promised. Once more, likely hiding places were visited. Once more, Elsefar could not be found.
The warehouse was no longer a safe refuge. It lay upon a street that, though small, was now patrolled frequently by Wardens. Ballas, with Crask and his daughter, moved southwards, to a jumble of half-derelict houses. No one lived there—except for a few stray dogs. The roofs were ripped away, and the stones were damp: yet a frugal shelter could be found. During the night, they decided to take turns at keeping watch.
When Ballas roused himself to take over from Crask, he found the eel-hunter in a state of near-panic.
‘I cannot live in this fashion,’ he said. ‘I am not built for such a test of nerves.’
‘You used to be a smuggler.’
‘What of it?’
‘Didn’t you ever feel on edge?’
Crask gazed angrily at him—as if he’d missed some fundamental point. ‘There is a universe of difference,’ he said, ‘between bearing a few parchments across Druine’s remotest territory, seeing scarcely a soul for days and … and this blood sport. What are we but deer entrapped in some private forest? We can run here and there—to a degree. We can hide here and there—to a degree. But we can never escape. We can’t even relax. And it is your doing, Anhaga Ballas. If you hadn’t gone to my marshes … if Culgrogan hadn’t told you about me … Damn it all! If he were here, and alive, I’d slit his throat!’
‘Tomorrow,’ said Ballas quietly, ‘we’ll change our plans. We will look for ways out of Granthaven.’
‘The city is sealed.’ Crask laughed hollowly. ‘There is no way out. Only Wardens are permitted to enter.’ He looked sharply at Ballas. ‘You are not intending to act like a fox pursued by hounds … You do not imagine you can run through the pack—simply cut among them, believing they will not spot you? I warn you: a Warden’s eyes are sharper than a hound’s. And they can scent—’
‘Stop rambling,’ grunted Ballas.
‘I am tired,’ said Crask—yet it was more accusation than apology. Getting to his feet, he said, ‘Besides—it is a fair point, is it not? How are we to leave, hm?’
‘The gates can’t stay shut for ever,’ said Ballas.
Granthaven imported most of its food. With the gates shut, none would be entering the city. Before long, the stores would be empty: all the grain, vegetables and meats would be gone. Though a large city, Granthaven had little farming land. Ballas had overheard talk that already the cattle were being slaughtered and the winter wheat harvested. Once people got hungry the Wardens would have no choice but to open the gates.
Ballas was mistaken.
For eight days, the gates remained shut.
Even living with little huma
n contact, other than that of Crask and his daughter, Ballas became aware of increasing hunger in Granthaven. He overheard talk of domestic privation—of empty larders and sparse rations. Upon the air hung smells of poverty cooking: bone-broth, vegetable soup, roasted cow- and pig-fat—these odours supplanted the usual ones of gravy-rich beef and crackling-covered pork shanks. Eventually, every man turned scavenger. In Granthaven, as in all of Druine, it was forbidden for ordinary citizens to bear arms. Yet men started to fashion crude bows and arrows and hunt stray dogs. Finding it impossible to steal food, since there was no food left, Ballas took up this practice: the dogs, undernourished, yielded tough, unappetising meat.
Occasionally, Ballas overheard conversations that betrayed the citizens’ feelings. Two men, on a dog hunt, walked past the slum in which Ballas was hiding.
‘I pay my taxes—but for what? To live on dog meat? Curse everything! Look at us! We work hard, and give a fifth of our earnings to the Pilgrim Church. How do they repay us? By shutting the city gates. By starving us.’ He looked unhappily at his bow and arrow. ‘I don’t want my children eating cur-flesh. Is it holy, to keep our bellies empty? They starve us, just as much as potato blight and cropfall do—and why? So they might capture a single man. We go hungry, so a sinner may taste justice.’
‘Don’t blame the Church,’ said the second man. ‘Blame the sinner. He is cause of our suffering. I don’t know what his crime is. But, clearly, it is serious: why else would the Decree have been issued?’
‘Whatever he has done,’ retorted the first, ‘it hasn’t harmed me. Or my family. It is the Church that makes us suffer, do you hear? The Church.’
Gradually, the city’s discontent turned to violence. There were riots. The shops of those who normally supplied food— the fishmongers, greengrocers and butchers—were looted. When there was nothing to steal, they were set alight, as if flames could vanquish hunger. Wardens, though plentiful, at first had trouble controlling the citizens. Order was restored— by violence. A few deaths … a few sword slashes and dagger thrusts and loosed crossbow bolts had a powerful effect. The citizens were angry. But none of them wanted to become martyrs.