by Tom Lloyd
Mihn had mastered the art with such remarkable speed that his father had known years before time that his son was easily agile and deft enough to be trained as a Harlequin. Now he had the witch’s magic, which enhanced his skills even further, beyond any normal human talent.
The cold was painful on his toes but he blocked out the discomfort and focused instead on his journey. The first patrol loomed out of the darkness and Mihn veered closer to the warehouse . . . their gazes washed over him without registering. In darkness it is less shape that betrays the prey than movement. The spell woven into his skin did not mask what he was - the magic required for that was beyond the witch’s abilities - but it did hide his actions. Wearing black in the shadows, Mihn could have stood still in a shadow half the distance from the two sodden penitents without being spotted.
As their heads turned to check the other direction, Mihn broke from the shadow and continued on his journey with swift, silent strides. He smiled underneath his hood as he saw the high priest’s palace up ahead. The tattoos had done everything Mihn had asked from the witch. Now it was time to see what trouble a ghost with a mission could stir up.
The palace was not a building designed to prevent intruders, and the increased security of the past month was founded upon complacency. Reaching the end of the warehouses, Mihn took a few moments to check one last time. There were guards at the temple entrance of course, as Death’s house must remain always open, but the palace of the high priest had only a single patrolling penitent doing slow circuits. Mihn waited for the man to stray into a blind spot where he would be out of sight of the outer guards, then raced soundlessly up behind him and used one fighting stick to deliver a hard blow to the back of his head.
He dragged the unconscious guard into the shadows and pulled out the moonshine. He poured most of it into the man’s mouth and massaged his throat until he swallowed. If he did wake up again he’d have twice the headache. Then Mihn spilled a liberal amount down the penitent’s robe, and dabbed a bit of the man’s blood on the wall nearby.
Bastard was well-known and popular with the more serious drinkers, being a fast road to blackouts and near-comatose sleep. Lesarl’s informants had told him the priests had restricted supply within the compound, so the most likely question to be asked here was why the guard hadn’t shared with his mates. If he woke to tell a different story, it would just as likely be viewed as weaselling out of a charge, rather than the truth.
That done, Mihn checked there were no patrols in sight before he took a run at the nearest wall; momentum carried him to the raised ground-floor windowsill. The bite of icy-cold stone made Mihn hiss softly as he dragged himself up on to the ledge, but he didn’t intend using his grapple on such a clear, silent night unless absolutely necessary. The ceilings of the ground-floor rooms were at least twenty feet high, grand enough for receiving important guests, but with the added bonus that the windows went up almost to the ceiling.
Once he was upright, supporting himself on the window embrasure, Mihn could see the sigils scratched into the thin panes of glass that would amplify the sound of breaking glass, and it was fair to assume that there would be more on the thick oak frame to do something similar if the whole window was broken or removed.
Carefully, Mihn turned himself around so that he was facing out towards the street. Ancient Tirah was a magical sight with its spired halls and imposing towers illuminated by Alterr’s light. Tirah in the middle of a winter rainstorm was something else again: a miserable city of hateful streets and uncaring, lofty arrogance.
A city of snobs, looking disdainfully down on everyone else - especially everyone who has business outside on a night like this, Mihn thought with rare petulance as he watched a patrol wander past in the distance, not even bothering to look up at the palace. His fingers and toes were starting to ache with the cold, and they complained further as he flexed them to keep the blood flowing.
But then again, I’ve spent more nights like this outside than I can remember, and everywhere looks pretty awful when it’s raining.
The life of a wanderer had taught Mihn one thing above all else; bitterness would kill him if he let it. As an automatic reaction he argued the point in his mind, aware that complaint would poison his mood and allow mistakes he couldn’t afford.
Gods, I’d almost forgotten what it was like at home; the freezing rain coming down off the northern coast that felt like it could strip the flesh from your bones. Slowly a smile forced its way onto his lips. And Pirail in the Elven Waste - how stupid to forget to leave that place before winter set in . . . damn wind didn’t seem so awful in summer.
He shook his fingers out. Time to go. He put flattened palms against the wall on either side of the window, braced, and lifted himself up until he could do the same with his feet.
And Tio He, he continued in his head to distract himself from the pain of the stone’s freezing, rough surface on his skin as he edged his hands upwards and repeated the movement. Air so thick and heavy you could almost take a bite out of it.
He manoeuvred one hand under the lintel and wedged the fingers of his right in the crack above it so he could pull his feet up further, ignoring the screaming complaints from his fingers as they took so much of his body-weight. He wasted no time in pushing himself clear of the window and up, grabbing the windowsill of the first floor with his left hand.
Mihn gave a quiet grunt as he got his forearm onto the windowsill and pulled himself up until he could twist and sit down. Ter Nol, he thought as he filled his lungs with air and flexed his hands again, this time checking for cuts as much as keeping the circulation going. Perhaps I could go back to Ter Nol and enjoy the view for a few years. Summer and autumn both, some of the most beautiful evenings I’ve ever seen were while I was sitting on Narwhale Dock. I’m sure after a year or two I’d hardly even notice the smell.
He stood on the windowsill and leaned out to check the window above him. The second floor was a fair way off. He pulled a pair of what looked like broken daggers from a leg pocket. They each had a fat inch or so of metal, like hooked blades, and were designed for climbing rather than fighting. Reaching above the lintel he stabbed one between the stones and pulled it gingerly, gradually letting it take his weight. The blade was strong enough, but he felt his wrist wobble slightly - the blade didn’t have enough purchase. Sighing, he jerked the dagger out of the mortar and slipped them both back into the pocket.
‘Grapple it is then,’ he whispered, his lips brushing against the stone of the wall as he leaned to the right to gauge the distance. ‘Let’s hope they didn’t bother securing every window in the whole damn building.’
The double-headed hook was securely bound to his back, but even with numb fingers Mihn managed to free it quickly. He hadn’t wanted to use the grapple, but the distance was short enough to the next windowsill that he was confident it wouldn’t be too obvious except to anyone already watching, and if that were the case, he already had a problem. Within a minute he was crouched in the shadow of the second-floor window and smiling at the pristine surface of each pane of glass.
He stowed the grapple carefully before removing the lead around one pane with his knife so he could ease out the glass and slide a hand inside to open the bolt. Soon he was standing in a barely furnished office, thanking the accuracy of Lesarl’s information as he put the window pane back and redrew the heavy curtain against the winter air. As an after-thought he dried as much of his body as he could on the inside of the curtain - it would dry long before anyone might check, and it was certainly safer than leaving damp footprints in the corridor.
He left the room and ventured out into the corridor, taking a moment to place himself on the map he’d memorised, then setting off left for the servants’ stair. He went up two flights and quickly found the high priest’s bedroom, which, together with the man’s vast private office, occupied half the floor.
The ornate patterned curtains that hung over the three doorways to the room had been drawn back from the middle ent
rance which, by tradition, lacked a door, in imitation of the temple. This was where High Priest Bern received formal petitions. Mihn stepped silently through and checked his surroundings. The single oil lamp hanging in the corridor gave only a little light, enough to reveal the bare outlines, but that was sufficient for him to make out the shelves against the walls, and only a desk and a couple of chairs standing in the centre of an otherwise clear floor.
On the right was another doorway, which led to the high priest’s bedroom. Mihn guessed it would be locked, despite the weak security he’d encountered thus far, but he didn’t bother trying it - he didn’t need to. He pulled a sheaf of papers from inside his shirt and scattered them around the desk, then unstrapped the jar and set it on the floor.
Above him was a long beam running the length of the room, almost as wide as his body and certainly big enough to perch on while he watched events unfold - he was pretty sure anyone entering the room soon wasn’t going to be bothered about looking up, and he had the witch’s spell if they did. He carefully unknotted the wire holding the jar’s lid on. The jar itself was little bigger than a flattened palm, and twice the thickness. It had a dark green swirling pattern on it that Mihn didn’t recognise. Once the lid was dislodged he didn’t wait around but launched himself off Jopel Bern’s desk. He grabbed the beam above and quietly swung himself up until he was lying flat along it. Then he kept very still and watched the jar.
It did precisely nothing. One heartbeat stretched into five, then ten. Mihn realised he’d been holding his breath and let it out softly . . . and as he did so a dull green glow began to build around the mouth of the jar. Without warning it rose in the air and expanded into a cloud larger than a man before coalescing into a figure.
Merciful Gods, let the witch’s magic work here too, he prayed as he gripped the beam tighter.
The daemon was the size and approximate form of a large man, and naked, with irregular clumps of spines like a mangy porcupine. While its left hand was relatively normal - if you ignored the over-long fingers and claws - the right was much larger, with two stubby, finger-like protrusions from which extended a spray of long, thick spines.
As Mihn watched, the daemon twisted its body left and right. It had no neck on which to turn its flattened head, but it did have an assortment of eyes to cover most angles. For a moment he wondered why it was turning - until he heard a snuffling sound and saw the hanging flap of skin on its face twitch up and jerk first in one direction, then the next.
Realising what it was doing, Mihn readied himself to leap from the beam the moment he saw the quill-arm rise. The daemon continued to look around, sniffing the air with increasing vigour, taking a step forward towards the neatly stacked shelves on the opposite wall. It continued by fits and starts, following a scent Mihn couldn’t fathom, until it reached a corner shelf.
The daemon sniffed hard, grabbed the end book and flung the entire row of files and books onto the floor, then gave a growl and swept something else aside - a wooden panel, Mihn guessed, from the way it clattered to the floor - and peered at the wall.
Mihn couldn’t see what it was looking at, but whatever it had found didn’t worry the daemon. Nor, it appeared, did the sound of a muffled voice from the high priest’s bedroom. With a heavy, rolling sound that might have been a chuckle, the daemon reached out and wiped its hand against the wall before reaching into a recess and pulling out a thick book. In the faint green-tinted light of magic playing around the daemon, Mihn saw the corners of the book gleam.
Silver, most likely; it’s a grimoire - but what’s a priest doing with a grimoire? Only mages bother compiling a book of spells.
The daemon turned back, hefting the large book in one hand with an appreciative grunt. Though he couldn’t see its mouth, or even if it had a mouth beneath that strange, oversized nose, Mihn could tell it was pleased: it had found what it had been looking for.
There were more noises from the bedroom now, and the daemon raised its lethal right arm. Looking up, it caught sight of Mihn, perched on the beam. The flaps of its nose rose towards him.
‘The one who is to be protected,’ the daemon rasped as if through a throat made of sandpaper. ‘He should not have worried. I smell power on you. You belong to one greater than I.’ It raised the book. ‘The writings of Cordein Malich; the account of his obligations and the scent of his soul. Tell the other I am satisfied.’
In the next moment the bedroom door was flung open and High Priest Bern emerged like a ghost in a billowing nightgown, his walking stick raised threateningly. The daemon moved forward almost lazily and flicked its spiny hand out to impale the high priest in the chest. Bern gave a wheeze of pain as the spines ripped right through his body and emerged out his back, spraying blood over the wall behind. The daemon gave another laugh and turned its body towards Mihn, the gleam of two of its eyes bright in the darkened room.
‘The other requested mayhem to aid your escape.’ It reached out and dabbed a finger to the blood pouring out of the high priest’s wounds before licking it clean. ‘Mayhem will be a pleasure.’
CHAPTER 18
He watched the dawn break, the weak rays puncturing the cloud. Something in him recoiled from the light, but he faced it down, as he had every morning for years. The feeble winter sun was still strong enough to sting his eyes at first, if he’d been awake all night glorying in the darkness.
Despite the rain and thick stone walls, he could still smell them from his vantage point, still hear their breath and feel the hot pulse of blood in their veins. Sometimes the smell was too insistent, making sleep impossible, and on those nights he would find himself a dark corner as far from others as possible. Even the foul winter nights of driving rain and biting wind wouldn’t affect him; the discomfort was barely noticeable against the warm hunger simmering inside.
With the dawn came voices, movement, animal calls; the bark of dogs and crow of cockerels. He managed to smile. Another night survived. Another night of sitting there watching the sleeping city, waiting for life to be breathed back into the streets. Another night where he did nothing. The sunlight crept over his skin and drove the feelings away, driving the darkness back down into the pit of his soul.
It was getting harder every year, but recently it had become much worse. He felt a tear on his cheek and gently wiped it off with one finger, holding the tiny drop of water up for inspection before tasting it delicately with his tongue. He spat it out immediately and felt the shame well up.
He pursed his lips. The dawn was here now and he was safe. One night at a time, that’s all he needed to remember, even though it was harder and he was feeling the need much more strongly. Though it had threatened to boil over many times, he’d managed to resist. He’d managed without the voice in the shadows for years, and he could survive this absence. He had to; to do otherwise was unthinkable.
I will not become a monster, I will not permit it.
Despite his brave words, he knew it was not so simple. Battle could not frighten him; violence and death were just happenings around him, but succumbing to his need was a terrifying prospect, one he could not even afford to contemplate.
Gods, last night was bad, so bad. I almost didn’t make it to the dawn.
Gods? The word meant nothing to him now: it was a habit, a meaningless curse. The Gods had never listened to his prayers; the Gods were not interested in him. When he had been at his lowest ebb, holding the corpse of that dog in his hands, his teeth clenched so hard his jaw had ached for days, had it been the Gods who answered him? No, the soothing voice from the darkness had been no God - Gods came in triumph and shining light, not unseen in the shadows.
And yet his prayers had been answered, for the hunger had subsided as the voice spoke to him and sustained him. Why it had suddenly stopped, after more than a year of whispers and soft laughter, the only true marker of the weeks passing, he had no idea, nor how long it would be until he heard it again - a week, a month? He’d come to rely on that voice, and then it had gone away
with no explanation or warning, leaving just a sense of loss that nagged almost as hard as the thirst inside.
‘I will be strong, the shadow will come again,’ he said softly, his resolve strong again. He stood and walked into the street where the new day was breaking.
From the rooftop above him a head turned to watch him go.
Curious, thought Mihn, leaning out as far as he could until the other had walked out of sight, most curious. Something to add to your file. Lesarl will be pleased.
Lesarl smiled down at his young son’s sleeping face and eased the door closed. It was early, only a hint of dawn in the sky when he’d risen to get a few hours’ head start on the rest of the city. There was a musty smell about the house, faintly overlaid by stale sweat, the scent he had come to associate with the hours before the household started its day, before the bread was set to baking and the bustle of city life intruded.
This morning he could also smell the dampness in the air after the night’s rain. From his dressing room window he could see the city was still quiet after the downpour. One great puddle filled the street outside, leaving barely enough room for the two guards standing at his gate. They were half-perched on the low wall, their backs pressed against the railing.
He walked towards the breakfast room. He loved the chamber despite its unsuitability, the five tall, rain-streaked windows ensuring the room was always chilly. A lamp sat on the table beside a steaming bowl of porridge. It did little to dispel the gloom, but it would be enough for browsing through the morning report his secretary had sent over. Withered grey-brown foliage left a skeletal trail across the lower parts of the windows, not dead, just waiting for the summer sun to return.
Noticing he was missing his usual rosehip tea, Lesarl went to call a servant, but as he reached the door something darted out from the shadows and he gasped as he felt something hard pressed against his windpipe. Without thinking he grabbed for the stiletto he always carried, but his attacker was quicker and smashed an elbow into his bicep so hard the arm went numb. Whatever was at his neck pressed a little harder.