Monument

by Ian Graham

  These thoughts flickered briefly—then died.

  Belthirran existed.

  He could feel it. It was there, within him, as a quickening of the blood, a nervous tightening in his guts.

  He supposed Heresh had been right, when she said that it was no longer a last resort for him—but something he craved. He had dreamed of Belthirran—that was true. Some might argue that he had confused the dream-place with Belthirran; and, having done so, was chasing a figment of his own imagination.

  This wasn’t so.

  Ballas knew the difference between dreams and reality. He knew how quickly a dream’s potency dwindled. A dream might alter the dreamer’s mood—might make him, once awake feel joyful or melancholic. But this passed after a short time. The dreamer’s waking mood would find its proper balance: a balance determined by the real world.

  For Ballas, Belthirran’s influence had not diminished. It had grown. In a vague way, he realised that it didn’t matter if he died—as long as he died in Belthirran. Belthirran was no longer a mere refuge. But, in some inexplicable way, a home.

  A thought struck Ballas. It was perverse—yet weirdly coherent. Maybe—he could scarcely bring himself to think it— maybe becoming the Church’s enemy … maybe killing Carrande Black, a Servant of the Church … had actually been the greatest stroke of good fortune. It had led to much suffering. But, ultimately, it might turn out to be the source of the greatest comfort.

  Life is strange, Ballas thought—for the first time in his life.

  Chapter 17

  As they neared Scarrendestin, the true Pilgrims

  Grew fearful, for Asvirius trod

  With urgency and feverishness, as if

  The mountain were a prize to be grasped …

  For several days, they rode northwards. The weather worsened. The frosts grew thicker; hail fell, a white fury pounding the land. Ballas and Heresh kept away from the roads. At night, they encamped by whatever sparse shelter they could find. They ate whatever the moors yielded: sheep, goat, fox …

  On the fourth morning, they crested a rise.

  In the far distance, through drizzle, Ballas saw something he mistook at first for a low bank of cloud: a huge slab of greyness, blocking the horizon.

  Then he understood.

  ‘The Garsbracks,’ he murmured. The mountains …’

  All day, he and Heresh held their northwards course. The mountains seemed to grow no closer. They hunkered countless miles away—a dull, impenetrable, unshifting vastness. Their stone was dark, its grey so deep as to be almost black. Only their lower slopes were visible. The clouds hung low, revealing little except the foothills. Dayshadow Town appeared only during the afternoon’s dying hour. Built from the mountains’ stone, the buildings could scarcely be discerned. They seemed to merge with the rocky heights, appearing only briefly as the light shifted. From far away, Dayshadow seemed just an extension of the mountain—and not a place in its own right.

  Drawing closer, the mountains’ size became more apparent. The air grew still. The north wind, which had whipped up the rain and hail and had gusted incessantly into Ballas’s face, died back, blocked by the Garsbracks. And this motionless air permitted a quietness unlike any Ballas had experienced. The grass stalks did not rustle. The trees did not creak. No wind moaned through the limestone outcrops. There was nothing to distract the ear from the sounds of living creatures. With astonishing clarity, Ballas’s mount’s hooves crunched upon the frost. Each hoof-fall seemed a soft explosion. A stonechat’s chh-chh cries were sudden, and shockingly loud. The moorland sheeps’ bleats, always dull and flat, gained an unexpected full-bloodedness—for the first time, they sounded as if they came from some wholly living, wholly sentient creature.

  The effect disturbed Ballas.

  On any Church-approved maps, the Garsbracks were the northernmost edge of the world. Beyond them, nothing existed.

  For an instant, Ballas felt this was true. The Garsbracks stood at the end of the world. As if the forces of creation had planted them there in order to say,There is no more.

  ‘You are mad,’ said Heresh, softly.

  Ballas looked at her.

  ‘Do you truly believe you can climb those mountains—and go beyond them?’

  Ballas drew in his breath. Then nodded.

  ‘Such an ambition would be understandable,’ said Heresh, ‘if you were drunk. But you are clear-headed now, aren’t you? Yet still it persists.’ She shook her head. ‘You will die.’

  Ballas shrugged.

  ‘You will die,’ Heresh repeated, ‘for nothing greater than an illusion.’

  As night fell, they entered Dayshadow.

  They rode through the quiet streets, passing between the grey stone buildings. They needed to find out exactly where Athreos Laike lived. They followed a back alley towards a row of taverns. Ballas hung back in a side street while Heresh approached a man who had just stumbled drunkenly from a drinking house. He wore loose work clothes: a pair of leggings and a shirt, both stitched from a thick fabric. A thin layer of dust clung to these garments. He looked like he was in his fourth decade, no more. Yet he stooped as he walked, as if troubled by his back.

  Heresh rode closer. ‘Excuse me,’ she said.

  The man did not seem to hear.

  ‘Excuse me,’ repeated the red-haired woman.

  He looked up, blinking. ‘You speaking to me?’ he asked.

  Heresh nodded.

  ‘I’m too tired to rut,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I’ve been working all day, and I want to use my bed for sleeping—nothing else.’ He gestured at the tavern from which he had emerged. ‘There are others in there, though, a little stronger than me. Perhaps you’ll have more luck with them.’

  ‘What are you speaking of?’ asked Heresh.

  ‘You are a whore, yes?’

  ‘Since when did whores ply their trade from horseback?’

  The man laughed—then shrugged. ‘You are right. I am sorry. But, as I said, I am tired—and as you can probably tell, I am also soused. It isn’t my fault, though. The blame belongs to my profession. I start labouring at dawn; when dusk comes, and I down tools, I need ale to soothe my sore muscles. Alas, it soothes my mind too … soothes away every clear thought.’

  ‘What is your trade?’

  ‘I am a quarryman,’ replied the drunk, ‘like almost every man in Dayshadow.’

  ‘Do you know Athreos Laike?’

  ‘He pays my wages. Damn everything, he practically owns the Garsbracks—as far as any man does. He has the quarrying rights for this part of the range.’

  ‘Does he live close by?’

  ‘Walk towards the mountains,’ said the quarryman, gesturing vaguely, ‘and you will find his home near the foothills. You can scarcely miss it: it is the largest building in Dayshadow. A mansion, more or less.’ He squinted curiously at Heresh. ‘One of Druine’s wealthiest men, it is said. One of the most tight-fisted, too. For all his gold, he lives frugally. It’s reckoned there’s no luxury in his big house. And he eats the same rations as you or I. The same oatcakes, the same vegetables—he could afford the finest. With his wealth, he could eat Glenshire beef for breakfast, flavoured with spices from the East. But he refuses. He eats like a bloody pauper. If you ask me,’ he drew back his shoulders, ‘it’s obscene. To have so much money, and not spend it—it’s like an eagle choosing to walk instead of soar.’

  The quarryman staggered away.

  Ballas and Heresh rode through the city, heading towards the northern edge. As they left the town proper, they came upon a large three-floored building built from Garsbrack stone. It was enclosed by a perimeter of railings. There was a garden— one that hadn’t been tended for a long time. The lawn was a shaggy, weed-tangled wilderness. A lavender shrub bushed out luxuriantly, grown well beyond any useful size. The flower beds sported only winter-shrivelled thistles and nettles. Three or four armed men patrolled the garden. Squinting, Ballas saw they were neither Wardens nor Under-Wardens.

&nb
sp; The big man hung back, in the shadows of the road.

  Heresh glanced at him. Then she approached a set of gates.

  ‘I wish to speak with Athreos Laike,’ she said, dismounting.

  One of the men strode over. ‘The hour is late,’ he said. ‘Can’t you come back tomorrow?’

  ‘It is a matter of urgency.’

  The man rubbed his jaw. ‘Truly? He doesn’t like having his rest interrupted …’

  ‘Tell him that Jonas Elsefar has sent me.’

  The man looked Heresh up and down. Then he disappeared into the house. A short while later he returned, walking beside a middle-aged man dressed entirely in black. He had a thin face, with small deep-set eyes. He was short and puny-looking: he had the spindly limbs and round shoulders of a petty bureaucrat.

  Are you Athreos Laike?’ asked Heresh. There was a note of incredulity in her voice.

  ‘I am his servant.’ His voice too was thin. There was something limp about his entire form. As if some unseen force had sucked all energy, all passion from him. ‘What is your business with my master?’

  ‘We wish to talk with him,’ said Heresh. ‘We come upon Jonas Elsefar’s recommendation.’

  The servant frowned. ‘That name isn’t familiar to me.’

  ‘It will be familiar to your master.’

  ‘My master prefers solitude to company,’ said the servant. ‘Why do you come?’

  Heresh licked her lips. ‘It is a private matter.’

  ‘There are many who would see my master on private matters. Then, once granted an audience, they bore him with trivia and complaints. Again—why must you see Athreos Laike?’

  ‘Can you not take my word that … that …’ Heresh faltered. She was not an accomplished liar, Ballas realised. She had flashes of guile, true. But a genuine liar could utter lies as easily as truths.

  Suddenly Ballas sensed that lies would not be needed.

  He heeled his mount forward a few steps. Emerging from the shadows, he said, ‘It concerns Belthirran.’

  The servant looked up. He started, surprised by the big man’s presence. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I travel with the woman,’ said Ballas, keeping his hood drawn up. ‘We must see Laike together.’

  ‘You wish to ridicule him, do you?’ asked the servant. ‘He shall not be made sport of—I won’t permit it.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Ballas, frowning.

  ‘Oh, come now,’ said the servant, folding his arms. ‘Is it not the way of men to mock those of achievement? Those who have accomplished something of such magnitude that it can scarcely be believed? My master has climbed the Garsbracks. If he wished, he could have gone on to Belthirran. An incredible endeavour. A unique endeavour. Yet it amuses people. It coaxes laughter from the small-minded … from the weak, the inept, the unexceptional. Why? Envy, I suspect. And that urge, which often accompanies such green anger: the urge to destroy all that is great. To tear it down. To obliterate it. Or—if such things prove impossible—to deny its greatness. My master is a remarkable man. Yet people seek to reduce him by mockery. They wish to convince others that he is a nothingness. Moreover, they wish to convince themselves. For in their envy, they feel shame, too. Shame that they are not great. That they lack his abilities, his resolve. He is as eternal as the mountains. They are as temporary as rain.’

  ‘I’ve travelled a long way,’ muttered Ballas, ‘and I don’t intend to mock your master. If anything, I’m here to praise him.’

  ‘Praise him?’

  ‘And ask for his help.’

  ‘Help in doing what?’

  Ballas paused. ‘I want to do as your master did. I want to find Belthirran.’

  The servant laughed. ‘You?’

  Ballas nodded.

  ‘I do not wish to be cruel, but look at yourself. You are hardly a healthy specimen, are you? One must be in the very best physical condition to—’

  Swinging down from his horse, Ballas moved close to the servant. He drew back his hood, exposing the horseshoeshaped scar on his forehead.

  The servant blanched. ‘You …’

  ‘Yes, me.’ Ballas nodded.

  The servant seemed unable to breathe. ‘You are the …’

  ‘For many weeks,’ whispered Ballas, ‘I’ve been hunted by the Church. They haven’t caught me yet. That proves I’m determined, doesn’t it? That, like your master, I have resolve.’ He drew his hood back up. ‘And trust me, little man: I’ve resolved to see Athreos Laike. I don’t believe he’ll refuse me.’

  ‘Wait here,’ said the servant, going back into the house.

  Ballas looked beyond the house, to the Garsbracks. In the nocturnal gloom, the mountains were indistinct. They existed as a mere thickening of the darkness. For a moment, Ballas felt that they were, in some inexplicable way, the origins of the night’s dark—that the darkness poured from them, and seeped across Druine: that, at every day’s end, they birthed night.

  The servant returned. He unlocked the gates, and gestured for Ballas to step through.

  ‘My master has consented to see you,’ he said, his voice quiet. He gestured to one of the armed men. The man strode over. ‘Take care of their mounts,’ instructed the servant. ‘Ensure that they are stabled, watered and fed.’

  Nodding, the man led the horses across the garden.

  ‘You must demand nothing of my master,’ said the servant, walking slowly towards the house. Ballas followed, Heresh at his side. ‘In permitting you to meet him, he is being gracious. Remember that he is a man of wealth, power and achievement. He does not tolerate fools. That said, he seldom tolerates visitors, of any type. I suspect you intrigue him. After all—’ he looked at Ballas ‘—you are now one of Druine’s most famous men. Whatever fate you meet, you will be remembered. As a villain, of course. Like Scarlet Enfrique, the Convent Rapist. Or Madren Halter—the Cutpurse of the Northern Roads. Perhaps you will exist, in Druine’s memory, for as long as Galdrin Sentricke …’

  He led them up a flight of steps and into the house. They entered a large, echoing hallway. The servant lifted a lantern from a wall-hook. Then he took Ballas along a series of corridors.

  The drunken quarryman had not exaggerated. Athreos Laike did not live in luxury. The floors were carpeted, the walls had hangings—yet both were plain, bearing not even the simplest designs, and were woven from inexpensive coarse wool. Their purpose was merely to conserve heat. Of which there was little, Ballas noticed. No woodsmoke-smell could be detected in the corridors—nothing to suggest that elsewhere in the building fires blazed. The house was dark, too. No candles burned in the wall niches. The servant’s lantern provided the only light.

  He took Ballas through a bare-walled room. An opened door led out on to a veranda. Upon the tiled expanse stood a figure in a pale robe. Its back was to Ballas. It seemed to be gazing at the mountains, several hundred yards away.

  It was of slender build; white hair fell to its shoulders.

  ‘Master,’ said the servant, ‘your guest is here.’

  ‘Good.’ A hoarse, grating voice—yet strangely rich. ‘But he is not alone?’

  ‘There is a woman with him.’

  ‘Send her away. She does not interest me.’ The figure shifted, slightly. ‘She may wait in the banqueting hall. See that she is provided for.’

  ‘As you wish, master.’ The servant touched Heresh’s forearm. ‘Follow me, please.’

  The red-haired woman looked at Ballas. The big man nodded.

  Heresh allowed herself to be led away.

  Ballas stared at Athreos Laike. The explorer’s robe was stitched from linen. It could have provided little warmth. Yet Laike seemed untroubled by the cold night air.

  ‘So,’ he said, still gazing at the mountains. ‘Jonas Elsefar sent you.’

  ‘He said you’d help me find Belthirran.’

  ‘Is he in good health?’

  Ballas paused, ‘He is well enough.’ He thought it wise not to mention the way he had abandoned the quill
-master. And the wolves he’d seen racing into the forest.

  ‘A pity,’ murmured Laike. ‘I met him only once, when I delivered to him the account of my journey up the mountains. He was extremely talented: he made many copies, some quite elaborate, of my work. He also ensured that they would be distributed across Druine. He had contacts, you see … But he was also sour-hearted. He believed his affliction justified his wickedness. I trust he still bemoans his infirmity?’

  ‘He does.’

  ‘He believes fate has cursed him.’

  ‘I reckon it can’t be pleasant to be crippled.’

  ‘It was his own doing,’ said Laike, shrugging. ‘Did he not tell you how he came to be crippled?’

  ‘He was born that way.’

  ‘That is his tale, yes,’ said Laike. ‘Perhaps now, after years of self-pity, he has even started believing it. But it is a lie, Ballas. And the truth is far less wholesome. To keep the story short: he strangled a whore, in a brothel at Tarminster. She was no ordinary whore, but one imported from the Distant East. Such girls are rare, and highly prized. The whore Elsefar killed was new to her trade. She hadn’t acquired the false manners a whore requires. When Elsefar dropped his leggings, she laughed. In his rage, he murdered her. Of course, the whoremaster couldn’t let this pass. He had invested heavily in the girl. To punish Elsefar, he thrust a blazing scalpel into his thigh muscles, just above the knee. This, I understand, was an apt retribution: in Eastern traditions, one who destroys another’s possession—particularly his cattle—is injured in this way. Why, I do not know: the East is a mystery to me.’ He laid his hands flat upon the balustrade at the veranda’s edge. ‘In his self-pity, Elsefar has forgotten he engineered his own ill fortune. A terrible man. The worst I have met.’

  ‘I thought you and he were friends,’ said Ballas. ‘Associates, and that a long time ago—nothing more.’ ‘Then I’ll tell you the truth: Elsefar’s dead.’

  ‘By your hand?’

  ‘More or less.’

  Footsteps sounded. The servant returned, bearing a wine flagon and two goblets. He filled the first goblet and carried it to Laike. The explorer accepted it wordlessly. The servant prepared Ballas a goblet. The big man took it, with a nod of acknowledgement. The servant left the room.