Moon's Artifice

by Tom Lloyd

  *

  There was no direct path across the slum for Enchei to follow. Even worse, the irregular network of tiny, winding streets had changed since last he was there. Some houses had sprouted smaller off-shoots like parasites that cut right across their path, others were missing entirely. He could tell what rough direction they were moving in, but several times they’d been forced to double-back as the street ended abruptly or swung off in a new, unexpected direction. As more and more of the locals went about their morning they became enveloped in a fluctuating hubbub of raised voices, barking dogs and crying children – a chaotic cacophony that masked any sounds of pursuit.

  ‘How much further ?’ Kesh gasped from behind him, still suffering from the draining scamper up the stone steps outside.

  ‘Not far— Hells !’ Enchei skidded to a halt as he rounded a corner to come face to face with a pair of black-clad goshe. Kesh slammed into the back of him while Irato barrelled on and was almost impaled by an alarmed knife-swing.

  ‘Here !’ bellowed one, ‘They’re here !’

  Both were Ghosts, pale-skinned and agile, and Irato was forced to desperately parry a flurry of blows from the one who’d almost caught him. Enchei left him to it and went for the other. The man stopped shouting and moved to meet him, swinging an axe at Enchei’s ribs and forcing him to stop dead. The axe head scraped harmlessly across Enchei’s side while he grabbed the goshe’s arm and hauled sideways. Using the arm as a lever Enchei dragged the goshe off his feet and slammed him face-first into a wall that shuddered under the impact.

  Not giving the goshe time to recover, Enchei smashed an elbow down into the top of the man’s shoulder and felt the socket pop. The axe slipped from his enemy’s grip and Enchei chopped savagely into the side of his head.

  On the other side of the alley, Irato had been driven back against a house – still warding off his opponent’s blows but barely stopping the lightning-quick slashes. Only the presence of Kesh stopped him from being overcome ; she was not so foolish as to throw herself at the unnatural fighter, but was using her blade to distract the goshe.

  The goshe feinted towards Kesh then moved to finish Irato off – bursts of cracking light racing down his arm to the tip of his long-knife. Irato threw himself aside before the man’s lunge could reach him and in the same moment Kesh jumped for the goshe’s back. Driving down with her knife she stabbed him between the shoulder-blades and the goshe staggered forward, crying out in pain.

  His knees buckled, dragging the weapon from Kesh’s hand as he reached for the wall’s support. Irato didn’t give him time to do anything more, driving a blade up under his ribs while smashing a knee up into his face for good measure. The blistering light winked out and the goshe went limp, folding in a blood-spattered heap on the ground.

  ‘You’re getting good at that,’ Enchei said admiringly. He jerked Kesh’s knife from the goshe’s back and wiped it on the corpse before offering it over to her. ‘That’s your second elite.’

  Kesh nodded as she stared down at the other dead man. His eyes were open, staring straight up, bloody abrasions from the wall covering one grey cheek. ‘They’re all to blame for Emari,’ she said in a quiet voice. ‘Or others like her – they’re all guilty of something similar.’

  ‘Reckon you’re right there, but let’s not hang around for the rest.’

  Enchei discarded his axe and waved the others forward. Kesh glanced at Irato, but if she was looking for any contribution from the man she got nothing, and with a shake of the head she fell in behind Enchei.

  A doorway banged shut on their right as they ran single-file down the narrow street – Enchei caught a glimpse of small faces through a half-open shutter, frightened children hiding from the murder outside. By contrast, a teenage boy with long whitish hair sat on a dirty brick wall ahead where the street forked, dressed just in cropped trousers and an ill-fitting shirt. He seemed entirely unconcerned by the armed figures running towards him and watched them with studied indifference.

  Enchei ducked low as he reached the fork, but no more goshe appeared to attack them as he’d expected. He looked left and right, trying to decide which way to go while Irato and Kesh joined him. The young woman stared up at the youth watching them. He had a spiral tattoo on his cheek that ran down his neck and underneath his shirt – not some local gang marking, Enchei guessed, but some sort of clan mark.

  ‘The stair this way ?’ Kesh asked him, pointing to the wider of the two forks.

  The youth shook his head and nodded in the other direction.

  ‘Sure ?’ she asked, fishing out the last of her coin and holding up a fat copper piece called a merchant.

  The youth nodded. ‘Quickest route,’ he said at last in a local drawl.

  Kesh tossed the coin towards him and the youth’s hand snapped it from the air like a striking snake. Enchei ran ahead, leaving the other two to follow as the fork took them to a nearly-straight stretch of brick-walled houses. A wall of white seemed to shine at the far end and he realised it was sky at the open flank of Coldcliffs.

  ‘Come on !’ he called back, ‘we’re nearly there.’

  The only reply was the sound of Kesh’s feet as she and Irato pursued him, but it was enough. In seconds they found themselves blinking at the sudden brightness of a massive open space between supporting pillars. Attached to the left-hand one was a shallow, curving slope that led up to the upper levels, but their attention was on what lay beyond the pillars. The great stairway down to the regular streets of Tale stood only twenty yards off, and Enchei felt a flicker of relief as he saw no black-clad assassins waiting among the scores of figures walking in all directions.

  He led his companions at a brisk walk towards the stair, motioning for them to sheath their weapons. If they did look out of place, no one seemed to care as they went about their morning, ignorant of the small, bloody battles already fought across Coldcliffs that day. The wind was as strong as it always was at that height, a brisk buffeting sweeping up from the city beyond as they looked out over the view that was the only thing to distinguish this cold and ancient structure.

  Dominating the vista was the Imperial Palace, its vastness only emphasised by the sight of the city’s distinct districts surrounding it, but there were many more buildings to pick out. Lord Omtoray’s squat fortress on the shore of the Crescent ; three black blocks from which two slender towers rose, while half a dozen similar thorns topped the palazzos of lesser Dragons. The abrupt cliffs on the Crescent’s eastern flank where House Eagle’s nobles perched, the green spaces of Wolf and Raven Districts and street after street of blue-tiled walls in Leviathan – all contributed to a strange mosaic that was the Empire’s heart.

  Enchei looked around for pursuers one last time. ‘No sign of Narin,’ he said grimly.

  ‘You think they’ve caught him ?’

  He waved them forward and they joined the mass of people heading down into the streets of workshops and houses of Tale. ‘Too soon to say,’ he decided. ‘Getting you two off the street is all we need to worry about right now.’

  Kesh glanced back at the curved lines of Coldcliffs. Neither Narin nor any goshe had followed them out. ‘I think we’re clear.’

  ‘Aye – but let’s take no chances,’ Enchei said. He pointed to a side-street where long ribbons of brightly-coloured cloth fluttered in the morning breeze. ‘There’s a shrine to Lady Dancer down there. Will give me a good view of anyone following.’

  ‘And Narin ?’ Kesh pressed. ‘What if they’ve caught him ?’

  Enchei scowled. ‘If they have, looks like I’ll be getting on my knees to pray.’

  ‘Pray ?’

  ‘Aye – our friend Lord Shield, might be time he lent a hand.’

  Kesh looked startled and beside her Irato unconsciously touched his hand to his injured ribs.

  ‘You can contact a God ?’

  The older man grinned wolfishly. ‘Course not – we’ll need a demon for that.’

  Narin turned the corner and stop
ped. The street ended a few yards ahead at a pig sty, of all things. He looked back, breath catching as he glimpsed movement then realised it was a child darting from one house to another. He could taste blood in his mouth – somehow he’d bitten his tongue as he tripped a few streets back.

  ‘Where now ?’ he muttered, cautiously retracing his steps until he could find another path.

  The sounds of the slum were punctuated by cries and shouts – noises he couldn’t translate into words, but he heeded their warnings nonetheless. Somewhere nearby someone was crying and calling out, a plea for help lost in the babble of pain and frantic breath of the injured. He steered clear, finding another path and hating himself as he did so.

  I should be running towards those in need, he thought distantly. His hand tightened around the grip of his stave as he left the voice behind. I’m failing in my duty – Lord Shield, let it be for a good reason. Let them find a clear path to safety.

  Narin knew he couldn’t have been far behind the others, but thus far he’d seen nothing of them, nor of the goshe pursuing. His path through the slum had been erratic, turned left and right by the formless sprawl of Coldcliffs’ tiny streets. The Investigator wiped a sheen of sweat from his face, his heart hammering away in his chest.

  At last he turned one final corner and his field of vision seemed to blaze with welcome light. Then he faltered as he saw a dark figure standing in the middle of the open ground. Ragged coat dancing in the breeze and hood pulled forward to shade his face, the goshe looked like a demon of legend and Narin felt his heart go cold at the sight.

  All around the goshe people edged past him – his head twitching left and right as he stared at each one’s face. He stood ready to kill, knives drawn and blood on the blade of one. Slumped against a wall to the left was a local, with a tattooed gang member bending over him and wrapping a wound to his arm. Clearly they’d challenged him, but this goshe at least seemed disinclined to kill anyone but his target.

  Narin edged back around the corner. The goshe hadn’t seen him yet, but Narin couldn’t see a way past him. He closed his eyes a moment and willed the fatigue from his body, taking in long deep breaths as he thought.

  Find another way ?

  Just thinking back at the path he’d taken made the suggestion seem foolish. He’d taken his time crossing the district, he knew – they’d have each exit covered by now.

  He looked down at his stave and straightened the leather vambraces Enchei had made him wear. They felt familiar on his body ; similar enough to the long padded gloves he wore for dachan or stave training.

  ‘Time to see if all that training has done any good ?’ he asked himself, feeling light-headed at the idea.

  A memory of Rhe on the training ground appeared in his mind, the two of them trading blows and practising against the weapons of criminals. The goshe had a knife ; that meant Narin had the better reach, whether or not the man was unnaturally quick.

  Don’t give him time to think, Narin realised, drawing the dagger from his belt and slipping the stave behind his back as Rhe so often did.

  How many times had he seen it ? That shaft of white appearing from behind Rhe’s back with blinding speed – both on the training ground and the streets they patrolled. So long as he timed it right, he could crack the man’s skull before he was in range of those knives – or at least stun him. Certainly anything more than a glancing blow would get Narin past and off down the stairs with a fighting chance of escaping.

  ‘Maybe the city’s right,’ Narin added with a bitter little smile, readying himself to sprint around the corner and at the goshe. ‘Maybe I am a hero – just waiting for the time to show it.’

  He didn’t wait to consider the answer there, just threw himself forward and ran as fast as he could towards the exit. It took him a few steps to realise the goshe hadn’t moved, but in that moment the man saw him and tensed, blades out wide as Narin rushed towards him. The Investigator kept up his charge, knife held ready out in front so the goshe could see it.

  He covered the ground quickly, a cry of fear and rage escaping his lips as he charged forward. The goshe barely moved, just twisting to have one knife forward, the other back and ready to strike. Narin didn’t slow and in seconds he was there, knife still held out before him like a novice fighter. The goshe began to move as Narin neared, one blade ready to deflect Narin’s own knife safely past, but it was nothing like far enough. Two paces away, the Investigator checked and swung his stave around with all his remaining strength.

  He saw the goshe’s eyes flash wide, one arm instinctively rise, but it was too late. The stave whipped around with brutal speed, years of training and fear combining. Narin felt the crash of impact shudder up his arm and the goshe’s head snapped sideways. Blood sprang up in the sun-kissed air and Narin found himself staring at a single drop of red as it reached its zenith and began to fall. He realised the man’s ear had burst open – most likely the goshe was dead.

  All around him people started to scream and flee. Narin half turned, mouth falling open, instinctively about to try and reassure them, but the words would not come. He watched the terrified faces with a strange disconnected sense. The sounds were muted in his ears, the movements slowed and dream-like. The wide stone steps lay before him, the crowd parting like dawn fog and he started forward.

  The way was clear and he found a new strength in his limbs as he made for it. Safety was within reach, he could feel it like warm sunshine on his cheek. Then his vision went black and he was thrown backwards.

  Pain blossomed in his face, his knife and stave fell from his hands. His head struck the edge of a step with a crack that seemed to split it open. Through blurry eyes he stared up at the clouds and clear blue sky that hung over the city. Then a dark shape moved across his view. Narin tried to roll away, but his body refused to obey. He could only lie there, jaw moving soundlessly as though calling for help.

  ‘There’s always more of us,’ he heard a woman’s voice say in the distance. ‘Surely you’ve learned that by now ?’

  Narin’s scrambled thoughts were still deciphering her words when the woman reached a hand out towards him. Something glinted in the light from the tip of her finger, steel-bright and so sharp he barely felt it slide into his neck.

  He saw her mouth move but the words were dulled whispers only. Narin felt himself sink back into the cold embrace of the rock below and the shadows lengthened until they enveloped him entirely. Then he felt nothing.

  Chapter 18

  Somewhere in the dark of his memory, a hundred bells chime. There is a distant echo of pain somewhere, but his mind is far from his body and other sensations eclipse it. Slashes of pink cloud hang above the city as the bells ring out and the crowd sighs as one when a woman’s voice sings out over them, a single, glorious breath that builds and rises to envelop the entire amphitheatre. Just as the singer’s lungs must surely burst, the note is taken up by scores of choristers and the evening sky is filled with sound.

  A long garden leads into the amphitheatre and from a dark pavilion there, a woman dressed in white runs. Pale-skinned with dark hair streaming behind, she sprints between the serried ranks of choristers and musicians. Three more follow, dark-skinned women with shaved scalps – all barefoot as they race across the grass and vault the principal singer effortlessly.

  Coloured banners flutter in the breeze from a hundred poles around the outer edge of the amphitheatre. Greatest among them is one fifteen feet high, white and bearing the stylised image of a dancer in mid-step. More dancers stream down the walkways, some dragging onlookers with them, and the musicians strike up a frenetic pace as the voices of the choir begin their prayers.

  Narin stands and watches as the scent of cooking pork wafts over him from makeshift kitchens behind. Slabs of different meats sit on two dozen hot plates and turn on spits, the scents of chilli and garlic fill the air alongside the prayers to the Ascendant Goddess, Lady Dancer. Flames cavort within great stone bowls edged in brass and ten feet across, spre
ad around the amphitheatre to blunt the winter chill.

  He pulls his jacket tighter around his body. It is not a cold evening by winter’s standards, but near to the year’s end all the same. The Festival of Dancer comes close to longest night and the priesthood long ago embraced their place in the celestial calendar. While Narin is there to preserve order, most of those attending are there to eat the warming fare, drink and dance with abandon.

  With long misty nights given over to the spirits and demons of darkness, the population of the Imperial City long ago chose this one to reclaim it for the mortal realm. The music and song were said to chase away the creatures of night, just as the dancing chased away the cold fingers of winter. Some would dance until dawn, the younger priests and priestesses leading them every step of the way, while the Lawbringers watched over them all.

  ‘Have you come to dance with me, Master Narin ?’ he hears a honey-sweet voice say at his ear.

  Narin almost jumps in surprise – so lost has he been in the hypnotic steps of the dancers. There beside him, a vision of beauty in a plain white dress, is Lady Kine, the firelight sparkling in her eyes.

  ‘I…’ He remembers himself and bows. ‘My Lady, I cannot, I regret …’

  Lady Kine tosses her head back and turns to the dark shape beside her. ‘He refuses me as my husband abandons me,’ she gently laughs to her companion, who says nothing.

  ‘Siresse Myken,’ Narin says in greeting to Kine’s bodyguard.

  The stern Wyvern warrior says nothing in response, she merely inclines her head to him as protocol requires. She keeps a respectful distance back from her charge, pistols holstered as ever across her belly.

  ‘Lord Vanden is not here ?’ Narin asks, feeling a guilty sense of relief as he says the words.

  He truly likes the man and hardly knows how to accept the patronage he has offered, but in his company greater formality is required. Away from him, Lady Kine’s laughter comes more easily and Narin craves the sound like a drug.