The Ragged Man

by Tom Lloyd

  ‘Kail, follow us at a distance,’ Venn called down quietly to the last Harlequin, who had just come out onto the window sill. ‘We can spare your blades easily enough. Watch our backs in case I am more flawed than I realise.’

  Kail pursed his lips, but acquiesced, going back under cover. Venn didn’t believe the Wither Queen’s request had any hidden agenda, but caution was rarely punished. Like all Harlequins Kail was careful, and Venn knew nothing would escape his attention if there was anything to see.

  With Capan and Marn trailing him, Venn ghosted along the peak of the roof, spending as little time as possible in the moonlight. He hooked an arm around the neck of a stone gargoyle looking over the street and dropped beneath it. Its reaching claws provided an easy handhold and Venn hung by one arm as momentum carried him past. He kicked out and felt his toes touch the jutting capstone of the house’s double-height rear door. He let go, and for a moment he stood flat against the wall, on the balls of his feet, his arms pressed out wide as he caught his balance.

  Then he dropped, pushing off the wall so he fell freely, grabbing the capstone as he reached it and spreading his legs to catch his feet on the stone door jambs to silently absorb the force.

  A second kick to the side allowed him to reach the sill of a window beside the door and from there he dropped the remaining few feet to the ground. He stepped back and checked the street for watching faces, but it was deep into the night and there were none. His descent from the roof had been virtually silent, with nothing more than a shoe scuffing on the stone.

  The others followed, perfectly mirroring his actions.

  Lomin was a compact city of tight, weaving streets and alleys, so close to the Great Forest that the inhabitants didn’t have the luxury of expanding beyond the city’s current boundary. The local laws were enshrined on the assumption of periodic siege, so nothing was permitted outside the thick stone walls, and the city elders had gone so far as to connect many of the largest buildings within the city to provide a second line of defence, should it ever be needed.

  Venn was already within the inner city, where most of the temples could be found, and from there it was a simple thing for the Harlequins to make their way to the Grand Square in the north-western corner, avoiding Lomin’s Keep, the ducal residence.

  The Grand Square itself was a misnamed, misshapen amalgamation. Centred on a monument to a past duke, it presently consisted of three expanses of open ground: the market to the north, the Temple District, that straddled the western piece, and a chaotic mass of open-air taverns and eateries in the southeast. There were some buildings in the Temple District, but they were all small and well spaced, so it looked more a part of the square than the rest of the cramped city.

  Apart from the multi-level many-roofed Temple of Nartis that marked the boundary between the secular and spiritual parts of the square, the temples were all single-storey constructions. Several were strung together and enclosed garden-shrines that the locals flocked to, but this night even the Temple of Etesia, Goddess of Lust, was quiet. The red and purple lanterns hanging from the temple’s eaves swayed gently in the breeze, and Venn heard only soft snores from within as he passed.

  He slipped into the jagged shadows of Vasle’s temple, any sound masked by the burble of water. The newest addition to the district was directly ahead of him, facing the cross-shaped Temple of Death on the edge of the square. The Wither Queen’s wooden temple looked poor by comparison; but for the sharp grey-blue painted spire rising from the centre of the peaked roof it could have been a sombre-looking barn.

  The roof and walls were black and the shutters covering the windows grey-blue. It looked far from welcoming, not least because of the dead garlands hanging from each corner of the temple.

  ‘Spread out, keep a watch for soldiers while I deal with the temple,’ Venn commanded Capan and Marn.

  Neither Harlequin argued as he set off, skirting the building to ensure there was no one awake nearby. The temple had been guarded earlier, but only by two soldiers stationed on the nearer side, either side of the door. He slipped on a black hood and crept forward, using the spire as a guide.

  When he reached the last piece of cover Venn paused. He had no doubt that he could kill both soldiers with ease, but he didn’t want to risk them shouting as he did so. He climbed the low building he was hiding behind and crouched on the thatch roof, keeping the peak between him and the guards as he drew his swords. Then he walked along the roof’s supporting beam until he was at the peak and peered over the top: the two guards were lazing almost exactly where he’d pictured them.

  Venn took a deep breath and launched himself forward, cresting the roof and sprinting down the other side, leaping from the edge with one sword raised. He landed a little from the nearer guard and slashed his sword into the man’s neck as he passed. The man had barely begun to turn when Venn opened his throat; he released his sword, dipped his left shoulder and rolled, bringing his legs under him and pushing hard to drive him onwards. He was back on his feet and lunging forward at the second guard in the same moment, but the man had not moved more than an inch when Venn’s slender sword pierced his heart like a stiletto.

  The former Harlequin made up the ground in a flash and grabbed the soldier by the arm just as the man’s knees realised what had happened and gave way. Venn punched him in the throat to crush his windpipe and ensure quiet and he sank to the ground without a sound.

  Venn looked around. There were no startled faces or vengeful comrades watching, just Rojak chuckling away at the back of his mind.

  He pulled the bodies into the shadows of the recessed doorway and retrieved his swords, sheathing one as he went around to the rear of the temple. He was keen to get out of sight of Death’s temple as soon as possible - though it was unlikely any priests were awake at this hour, all of Death’s temples lacked doors and the torches were kept burning outside and would need replenishing from time to time.

  At the back of the Wither Queen’s temple he found an annex, half the height of the temple. The door was locked, but Venn placed one finger into the lock and put his other hand on the Skull of Song hanging from his waist. In half a dozen heartbeats he felt the slight click of the lock opening as Jackdaw did his work.

  He slipped through the door and closed it behind him, finding himself in a small kitchen. On his left was a pallet where a young girl sprawled, still asleep. He put a hand over her mouth and stabbed down into her heart and her eyes flashed open, the whites shining bright as she struggled for one moment of utter panic before falling limp.

  The priestess through the next door was lying face-down on her bed, a naked youth beside her. He stabbed the boy, then dropped down to kneel on her back and yanked her head back hard enough to snap her neck. The lovers died within an instant of each other.

  Venn checked the main body of the temple quickly. There were only supposed to be three people inside and he’d taken care of three people . . . He spent a minute standing at the entrance listening, trying to ignore the beat of his heart. It was pitch-black inside and he could see nothing at all. Once he was certain he was alone he ordered Jackdaw to cast a faint illumination around the room and saw eight rows of pews running down the centre of the room, icons of the other four Reapers on the side walls, a bedroll in a corner, still done-up, and little else. Long hanging drapes covered the walls, except where an icon or lamp had been fixed to the wall, leaving the bare wood visible.

  The altar was a table covered in cloth, too dull in this light to be plain white, below a larger icon of the Wither Queen. Venn examined the image of the Reaper Aspect, which depicted her as tall and imperious. Her bearing was a little more regal and a little less cruel than the God he had met.

  He sniffed; there was decay in the air. It took him a while to trace it, until he spotted a cage of some sort. As he got nearer he realised there was a dead dog in it - no doubt it had been diseased when they brought it here as some sort of tribute, but even in the dim light Venn was able to see it had been
dead for a while.

  ‘When you are a God, minstrel,’ Venn said softly, ‘your temple will look like this.’

  He didn’t wait for a response from Rojak as he dragged the bodies of the soldiers inside, dumping one with the novice and the other with the priestess. It was unlikely he would be fooling anyone, but there was no point advertising what he’d done. Once he’d finished Venn went around the drapes in the main room and Jackdaw set them all alight before doing the same in the two smaller rooms.

  Confident the blaze would soon take the whole building Venn headed for the refuge of the dark narrow streets beyond the Temple District. At the Temple of Tsatach he hesitated, but the cordon of bronze fire-bowls around it were all burning low, the light they cast fitful. He weaved his way between the stone pillars that supported the shallow bowls, but stopped when he reached the other side when he spotted a unit of armed men dressed as Penitents of Death.

  They hadn’t seen him yet, but Venn had no illusions; it would take them only moments.

  A shame for you I didn’t come alone, Venn thought, advancing towards the penitents.

  The first man to notice him took a step back in surprise, his mouth opening to cry out, but no sound came. Marn darted out from behind him, leaving her leading sword in his throat. She pivoted around the man and slashed across the face of the next penitent to turn her way. The group had barely registered her presence when Capan danced forward from the other side, his blades swinging in unison. One fell, then another in the next swift stroke. Venn himself was already moving, slicing across a wrist, dodging sideways around a spear, cutting across a man’s mouth . . .

  He didn’t wait to watch the penitent fall but kicked the one he’d winged and drove him back into the last man standing. Before either could recover their balance Marn had finished them both off with an elegant double swipe.

  Venn didn’t see any point in hanging around waiting for more temple troops to arrive. He led the Harlequins into the tight, twisting streets and on to find Kail. As they arrived, Kail stepped out from a covered walkway, dragging with him a woman with dyed coppery hair and a split lip, cradling a broken arm.

  ‘Your instincts were correct,’ Kail informed Venn with a bow.

  ‘A devotee of the Lady?’ Venn wondered aloud. ‘What is your argument with us?’

  The woman spat on the ground at his feet.

  Venn could see she was trying to fight pain and shock. ‘I do not have time for this,’ he declared. ‘Bring her.’

  Kail grabbed the woman by the arm, but without warning her legs went from under her and with a gasp of pain the devotee collapsed onto the ground, protecting the arm Kail had broken to subdue her.

  Venn frowned. She hadn’t passed out, so the fall was intentional.

  ‘Going nowhere,’ the woman hissed through the pain. ‘You want to kill me, do it here.’

  Venn had to laugh at her defiance, however short his humour was. ‘All I want is to know why you were following us.’

  ‘Piss on you,’ she snapped, ‘whoever you are. I was sent watchin’ the merchant.’

  ‘I can hardly let you go now,’ Venn said, drawing his sword once more.

  ‘That blood on your sword?’ she asked derisively. ‘Oh sure, an injured devotee of the Lady’ll run to the guards as quickly as she can when murder’s been done. Bloody love gaols, me.’

  Venn thought a moment, then sheathed his sword and gestured to the others to move on. The woman looked up in surprise, but it was short-lived. He slapped away her raised hand, gripped her head and twisted it violently. There was a sharp snap as her neck broke and she fell limp.

  ‘Nice try,’ Venn muttered as he smashed her head against the ground, then arranged her broken arm underneath her body, ‘but I prefer not to gamble.’

  He looked up at the buildings above them; the fall was easily high enough to be fatal. Quickly he climbed up on top of the walkway and stamped hard onto the overhanging tar-covered boards covering it, enough to snap a pair of them and send the pieces down to lie on the ground beside the body.

  ‘Plausible enough,’ he announced quietly as he lowered himself to the ground. ‘And now we must lose ourselves in night’s embrace.’

  Capan gave a curt nod. ‘These deeds are done,’ he said, recognising the play Venn had quoted, ‘let the veil of darkness be our only witness.’

  ‘And so the game changes once again,’ Ruhen said softly. The unnatural boy was standing next to Ilumene at a high window, looking down at Byora. The room was pitch-black, lit only by the pale light of Alterr shining through the windows. This was how they both liked it, caught in the embrace of the concealing night.

  ‘A change too far, maybe,’ Ilumene added, idly balancing a stiletto on the back of his scarred hand.

  ‘How so?’

  The big soldier squatted down at Ruhen’s side so he could look into the child’s shadow-laden eyes. ‘This is all happening too fast, you can’t deny that.’

  ‘Change is inevitable.’

  ‘Don’t give me that,’ Ilumene said firmly, trying to restrain his growing impatience. ‘I’m not Luerce or even Venn - I won’t swallow that without question.’

  ‘Good.’

  Ilumene waited but Ruhen’s gaze was unblinking and eventually he realised the child was expecting him to provide the reasons himself. He sighed and sat down on the floor. With the stiletto he pointed out over the city. ‘Since he was Chosen, the Farlan boy accelerated this war with every breath he took - it’s burning hot, fast and out of our control.’

  ‘Fortunate he died before he achieved further mischief.’

  Ilumene shook his head. ‘The damage is done. If the Menin conquer Narkang this season we may not have enough time.’

  ‘Kastan Styrax has many Skulls yet to track down.’

  ‘At the pace he’s going? He’ll regain Knowledge and Ruling when he cuts out Emin’s heart, and he’ll most likely find the journal sitting on the man’s desk. Smart money is on the vampires offering theirs, believing it worthwhile to believe what he would promise in return. That brings his total to nine.

  ‘When Venn arrives it could become ten without much strife. All we’re missing are Hunting and Dreams, both in Farlan hands and both on the list for next summer, if not earlier.’ His voice came more urgent, ‘Master, we planned for five years of long, drawn-out war, to give us time to prepare the way.’

  Ruhen was silent for a time, staring out over the great buildings of Eight Towers and the districts beyond.

  ‘Your tune has changed since we last discussed this.’

  ‘I’ve had time to think since.’

  ‘And the new melody?’

  ‘What would it take to be ready by the end of next year?’ Ilumene sheathed the knife and leaned closer to Ruhen. ‘I know the goal, but not the exact method - if we were to gather the objects we need by the end of next summer, what would be lacking?’

  ‘A power-base,’ Ruhen replied, turning to face his scarred protector, ‘the foundation of worship.’

  ‘Exactly. Your preachers were to spend those five years of war drawing followers away from the Gods and to your own worship, thus weakening the Gods and building your own foundation. Gods and daemons and everything in between: the worship does Styrax no good while he is mortal, but you are not mortal, no matter what form you appear in.’

  ‘I thought you more intelligent than this,’ Ruhen said, his expression turning cold. ‘If I drew my strength from the worship of mortals, I would already have done so.’

  Ilumene grinned. ‘Appearances can be deceiving,’ he said, before hurriedly continuing, ‘A God receives worship, a daemon thrives off fear and pain - but both are strengthened by the followers they possess, and I’d guess the same goes for everything in between. King’s Men aren’t just soldiers or spies; Emin insisted we knew more of the Land than the folklore of childhood. We spent too much time in the wilds to be ignorant of such things; I might’ve forgotten much, but I remember one thing the old witch who taught us used to
say: “the only hierarchy more rigid that the Pantheon of the Gods is found in the chaos of the Dark Place”. No matter where they’re from, beings of magic can be subsumed by others, just as they can offer their power, no? A power base is the only way they can maintain their position.’

  ‘Our new friend?’

  ‘She ain’t strong enough yet, not for her needs. She was once an Aspect of Death, so how long ’til He rectifies that situation? She can’t hide forever, but maybe we can help her prepare.’

  ‘Offered the right covenant,’ Ruhen said, ‘perhaps, yes. She will be resistant to the very idea of a new master.’

  Ilumene snorted. ‘Whatever her bluster, she’ll know it’s a straight choice.’

  ‘Dare we expect logic from a God?’

  ‘Fair point,’ Ilumene admitted, ‘but you’re known to be persuasive.’

  Ruhen smiled at last, his small, neat teeth bright in the moonlight. ‘It will take Venn a few days to return. I have until then to decide,’ he said, but the expression on his face was enough for Ilumene. It would be done.

  With that, the twilight reign crept closer.

  Through a break in the canopy Venn looked up at the early evening sky. Long trails of cloud reached over the paling sky to where the sun was just about to set. As his custom since leaving the snow-bound home of the Harlequin clans, Venn crossed his hands over his heart and inclined his head towards the orange ball at the horizon.

  He’d seen this done in Mantil, throughout the pirate havens and fishing ports of that island. It was a gesture of deference, echoing Azaer’s small contribution to the Elven language, and he had adopted it himself to greet twilight.

  I have seen how flawed my people are, Venn thought with a smile, how enslaved they have been to telling one particular notion of history and refuting Aryn Bwr’s heretical truths . . . And yet still I am drawn to tradition with all the rest of them; still I feel the need for solemnity and reverence. ‘Flawed and frail is man and so we raise Gods in our better image’ - Verliq had a point there.