The Grave Thief

by Tom Lloyd

  The Harlequin’s voice softened. ‘One Prayerday morning, the High Priest of Nartis passed his counterpart in Tsatach’s service and they fell into conversation. Both looked decidedly pleased, and each enquired why the other was so happy. The answer given by the Night Hunter’s servant was quickly echoed by the other: “There is only a week until Jerrath comes of age and joins my temple”.

  ‘Both priests looked at each other in astonishment before realising that the Jerrath they knew as a faithful and devoted servant of their God, was just as devoted to all of the Gods of Aineer. Quickly they gathered all of the senior priests of the city and, unable to agree amongst themselves, went to the house of Jerrath’s father to demand a decision from the girl herself.’

  Gian felt a tingle run down her spine. She hadn’t heard a Harlequin tell a tale since childhood, but even as a careworn mother of three, she felt the spell of its words just as strongly, every syllable teasing the nerves down her neck like a lover’s caress.

  ‘The humble Jerrath could make no such decision. She became frightened as the gaggle of clerics shouted their demands at her, for she had never realised she would one day have to prefer one God above the others. It fell to Jerrath’s father to hush the mob, whereupon Jerrath begged him to make the choice on her behalf. Her father thought for a long time, frightened by the decision he was to make.

  ‘Knowing only too well that Jerrath was beloved of the city, he saw the avarice of the priests who might benefit. Jerrath’s popularity would bring the citizens of Aineer flocking to whichever temple she served; the God of that temple would become first among the Gods of Aineer. He feared his decision would give that high priest sway over the entire population.

  ‘The longer he delayed his decision, the angrier the priests became.

  ‘Soon he could no longer stand the clamour as more shouting clerics gathered outside the house to add their voices to the debate. He called for silence and was ignored. Twice more he cried for quiet and each time they continued to shout. Eventually Jerrath’s father pounded on the table with a leg of lamb, freshly slaughtered and being prepared for their evening meal, and blood flew over the whole crowd. Only then was there quiet.

  ‘In a loud voice Jerrath’s father declared he could not choose one God over another, so he would leave it in the hands of the Gods themselves to decide. Upon hearing this, all assembled understood what he meant by this, for Aineer was a city that loved competition and wagers as much as the child they were fighting over. The temple coffers were filled by taxes upon both these activities and offerings from competitors.

  ‘Jerrath’s father declared that on his daughter’s birthday a race would be held in the streets of Aineer. The priests of each temple were to carry the statue of their God from one temple to the next, following the path Jerrath took each morning. The first to reach the Temple of Alterr on the far side of the city would be declared the winner.’

  The Harlequin paused and took stock of its audience, standing in rapt attention. Gian followed its gaze around the room; only she moved; her guests and servants alike were statue-still, as though frozen by some ancient spell.

  ‘The day of the race,’ it continued, starting straight at Gian, who felt a sudden cold chill, ‘the whole city lined the route before the first rays of dawn touched the rooftops. Bets were laid and a feast prepared for the winner, but a surprise awaited them all as the sun crept into view. Drawn by the fervent prayers of their servants, the Gods themselves stood in the bright morning light outside the house of Jerrath’s father, surrounded by the priests of their temples.

  ‘Jerrath’s father walked out of his house to start the race and the blood drained from his face. Before him were the eight most prominent Gods in the city, as tall as houses and terrifying to behold: Tsatach, with his great flame-bladed axe and fat copper bands on his arms; the Queen of the Gods in robes of red and orange - she whose true name is accursed for the pity she demonstrated during the Great War - and beside her stood proud Larat in his patchwork cloak of every colour in the Land. Behind them were Veren, God of the Beasts, alongside his winged brother, Vellern; then the sister-Goddesses of Love, Triena and Etesia, whose purple ribbons danced in the air, and grey-faced Kebren, God of Justice, with his huge brass scales across his shoulders.

  ‘The Gods were silent, all watching Jerrath’s father as he stood in the doorway of his house, shaking with fear, until Jerrath herself squeezed past him and bowed to each God in turn, prompting him to follow suit.

  ‘With the Gods themselves thus arrayed on his doorstep, Jerrath’s father announced that the priests should not carry a statue of their God on a litter but the God itself. The crowd watching cheered his words immediately and in the face of such enthusiasm the Gods agreed. They lined up as best they could in the street, and each of the Gods sat upon a litter with a dozen of their strongest priests carrying them.

  ‘With a great roar from the crowd the priests started off towards the first of the temples - all but Kebren’s servants, who, try as they might, could not manage to stagger more than a few steps under the weight of their God’s enormous brass scales. All twelve priests fell to the ground, exhausted. As hesitant laughter rang out from the crowd, Kebren gave a roar of fury to silence the voices and disappeared in a clap of thunder.

  ‘And seven remained.’

  Gian frowned. She had heard this story only once, years before, but it sounded strange to her ears. ‘That’s not how it happened,’ she muttered. ‘The Gods suggested the race themselves, I’m sure of it, and Kebren did not fly into a rage.’

  In the hushed room her voice carried and a number of people turned to glare at her. Gian almost gasped at the furious faces turned in her direction.

  ‘What do you know, were you there?’ growled one.

  ‘I’ve heard this story before,’ Gian whispered.

  ‘You think your memory better than a Harlequin’s?’ hissed Peira, her favourite aunt. The old woman’s face was contorted with spite. ‘Everyone knows what the Gods are like; of course they were angry.’

  ‘But I’m sure—’

  ‘Shut up,’ said burly Vorren, her cousin, as his fat fingers flexed and closed tight into a threatening fist. ‘Stop defending them.’

  Gian raised her hands, trying to placate him, but Vorren immediately bristled at the gesture. She lowered them hurriedly and looked down, feeling the anger in the room like a fire blazing. She bunched her sleeves in her fists, trying to stop her hands shaking as they all stared at her. The moment lingered, her fear deepened - and then the Harlequin spoke again, resuming the story and defusing the suddenly choking atmosphere.

  ‘Seven, the remaining Gods numbered, and seven sought to turn events to their advantage. As they reached the first temple, that of Kebren, the Queen of the Gods realised her feeble priests would not last much longer, so old and infirm were they. She adopted the form of her chosen creature, the phoenix, intent on carrying both litter and priests in her claws, only to have the conflagration of her outstretched wings burn the priests to cinders.

  ‘Seeing this attempt at treachery, Vellern gave his bearers wings of red and blue plumage, but without hands to carry the litter they left their God behind. Both Triena and Etesia stopped by the wayside to charm a watching company of knights and have them carry both priestesses and litter, but the soldiers started to fight amongst themselves for the honour and blocked the street.

  ‘Veren, Lord of the Beasts, imitated his brother Vellern and changed the legs of his priests to those of powerful stags. They raced ahead of the others and had the next temple in sight when they became trapped in a drain gutter, quite unable to move. Tsatach bestowed upon his priests the strength of the Chetse heroes that were first among his followers, but so sure were they of their superior strength that once they had outdistanced the rest they stopped to drink at a tavern. There, as the Chetse, Tsatach’s chosen people, are wont to do, the priests quickly started trying to impress their lord with feats of drinking - but of course the God outdid them al
l, leaving them drunk on the ground.

  ‘The last of the Gods in the race, Larat, stopped his priests as soon as he saw the others begin to fail. Realising that pride would be their undoing, he did nothing to his priests and instead turned the litter into a chariot. A golden whip appeared in his hand and the traces ensnared his priests like striking snakes. With a crack of the whip he set off again, laughing as hard as the crowd lining the street while his priests yelped and howled.’

  The Harlequin’s voiced dropped until it was low and mournful. ‘And so it was Larat who won the race, Lord of Cruelty and Manipulation, and the last sight of Jerrath afforded to her father was the sight of her trailing after Larat, the golden whip caught around her neck, as he dragged her away for fifty years of service.’

  That’s not right, Gian thought, biting her lip hard enough to make it bleed so she would not speak the words aloud again. That is not the tale I heard.

  She looked around the room and saw tight faces and angry expressions, but more than a few of her guests were nodding at the Harlequin’s words, as though recognising a great truth. Careful not to draw attention to herself Gian slipped the bronze charm to Kitar hanging around her neck inside her dress, away from the eyes of her guests.

  ‘Merciful Gods, what has happened to them all?’ she whispered.

  CHAPTER 22

  Doranei leaned forward, his eyes on Legana. The woman gave no sign of noticing him; she was looking around the room like a blind woman, instinctively turning at each small sound. At her side was the priest, Antil, fussing over her like a lover.

  The thought stopped Doranei in his tracks. A bitter bubble of laughter welled up in his throat and he had to cover it with a cough.

  Oh you poor bastard if you’ve fallen for her, he thought. Martyrs to our own hearts, we are.

  The room was lit only by a single candle, at the priest’s urging. Doranei had to strain his eyes to see what Legana had written on the slate.

  - Where am I?

  ‘Somewhere safe,’ Sebe replied from the doorway, ‘we ain’t taking you to your wine merchant tonight.’

  They were in a private room over the safest-looking tavern he’d been able to find. There were three sets of bunks fixed to the wall, four stools and a table too light to barricade the door with. The landlord had taken one look at the four of them and doubled his standard rate. It was money they could ill-afford to spend, but Doranei knew they had to get off the street as quickly as possible. If worst came to worse, he could always steal more. A childhood among criminals had many benefits.

  ‘Tell us what happened,’ Doranei interjected. ‘What’s that on your throat?’

  Legana made no response other than to turn to the priest. Antil wilted under the combined glare of the three killers. Like most priests of Shotir, Doranei noticed, the man had worry-lines on his face and more fat than muscle under his robe - and right now he found himself in a different Land to the one he normally inhabited. Most likely he was ready to collapse in nervous exhaustion.

  ‘I found her in my bedchamber,’ Antil began, colouring at the sound Sebe made from his position at the door. They’d rigged a tripwire at the bottom to catch anyone charging in, but Sebe was standing guard all the same.

  ‘She had been thrown through the window when the Temple of Alterr exploded.’

  Doranei blinked ‘It did what now?’

  ‘You haven’t heard about that?’

  ‘Not that it had bloody exploded!’ Doranei said with a disbelieving laugh. ‘We’ve only been here a couple of days, just enough to hear about the Clerics’ Rebellion and general chaos. Someone mentioned a damaged temple, but nothing as drastic as that.’ He looked at Sebe, who nodded his agreement.

  ‘I don’t really know much more, other than whatever Legana met in there was powerful enough to kill a Goddess - and to break half the bones in Legana’s body as an afterthought.’

  ‘Goddess? Which one?’

  ‘The Lady,’ he said sadly.

  Both men gasped in shock. Nothing had prepared them for that. Doranei assumed the rumours meant a minor Aspect - but the Lady was almost within the Upper Circle!

  ‘So Legana lived while a major Goddess died?’ He didn’t bother to hide his scepticism; something about this didn’t make sense.

  The pale-skinned woman nodded.

  ‘But how? I’ve seen you fight - and you’re damn good - but when a Goddess dies nothing mortal gets out of the room alive. Come to think of it, if you broke so many bones, how are you walking around?’

  ‘Ah,’ Antil piped up, ‘I helped there a little - but she was touched by the Lady, and a residue of that power remains.’

  ‘But she’s just a devotee!’

  ‘Oh.’ The priest shut his mouth with a snap and looked down.

  ‘What?’ Doranei demanded irritably.

  Legana gave him a predatory smile. Her sight was still vague and unfocused, but she was following the sound of his voice well enough. For the first time since they’d bumped into her she looked like the woman he’d known in Scree, controlled and confident. Doranei had found it so unnerving to see her walk to the tavern with uncertain, jerky steps that he had eventually moved ahead to scout the road so he didn’t have to watch. The fiery-tempered Farlan agent and he had never been friends exactly, but he’d admired her powerful grace and purpose. To see a peer so vulnerable and damaged left his hands trembling, and his throat burning for a drink.

  Legana scribbled on her piece of slate and held it up to him.

  - Mortal-Aspect.

  ‘Piss and daemons,’ Doranei breathed, ignoring the high priest’s expression. ‘I never even heard of . . . Merciful Death! And Fate’s dead? Does that make you—?’ He let out a sigh of relief when Legana shook her head.

  ‘What about Ostia?’ he asked awkwardly, his fear mounting. Oh Gods, please no, don’t let it have been Zhia who did this.

  Again Legana shook her head, but her expression became grave. She wrote again on the board, - Talk alone.

  It took a little persuading to get Antil to leave her side, but once they were alone Doranei dragged his stool close beside Legana so he could see the slate.

  - Aracnan, she wrote.

  Doranei frowned. He knew the name, and the reputation, but he hadn’t expected to hear it in this context. ‘Do you know why?’

  She shook her head, her grey-and-coppery tresses falling over her eyes.

  ‘Can you guess? What was he doing in the temple? You must have walked in at just the wrong time - I had no idea Aracnan was so powerful that he could kill a God at all, but not even Death would choose lightly to fight the Lady.’

  - Pretend ritual, summoning.

  ‘Pretend?’ Doranei scratched the stubble on his cheek as he thought. ‘Making it look like a priest was summoning a daemon? Doesn’t matter whether you believe it or not, it stirs up trouble. Either one more reason to consider the clerics enemies, or confirmation that someone’s trying to discredit them.’

  - Who profits?

  Doranei shrugged. ‘Depends what the priest was like, what position he held in the city.’

  - Powerful, ear of the duchess.

  ‘Could be bloody anyone then; might be trying to replace him as an influence, undermine the duchess, damage the reputation of the cults within the city - or could be something entirely personal for all we know.’

  - Azaer ?

  He scowled and wiped the name out with his sleeve. ‘Hope not. Gives the shadow far greater scope if one if its followers is strong enough to kill a God.’ Doranei looked around, checking the room once again for mirrors, relieved that he hadn’t missed any.

  - Why are you here? ‘To find you, in a manner of speaking.’

  - Zhia? ‘The king sent me,’ he said hurriedly. ‘I need to speak to her on his behalf.’

  - Not here yet.

  Doranei looked Legana full in the face, and only then did he realise her eyes had changed colour. Where they had once been the normal Farlan deep brown, now they were a bri
lliant dark green, deep pools in which a man could lose himself. It wasn’t the only change in her appearance, just the one that most obviously marked her as linked to Fate. How had she described herself, Mortal-Aspect? He’d never heard of such a thing, and most likely that was a bad sign. When the Gods were involved, change would surely come only under the most extreme of circumstances.

  Legana was as beautiful as ever, but now her alabaster skin, seamed hair and green eyes made her look strangely terrifying. And now he was close enough to notice a series of lumps at the base of her throat where the shadowy handprint was, almost like a necklace underneath the skin.

  ‘Gods, what happened there?’ he breathed. Without thinking he reached out to touch the bumps, only to have Legana flinch away. Red-faced, he started muttering his apologies.

  - My business, she wrote.

  ‘Of course, sorry.’ He shook his head at his own foolishness. ‘Do you mind—? I’m sorry, but I’ve just realised I don’t know who I’m talking to anymore. Are you an agent of the Gods? Of Lord Isak, still? How do you know Zhia isn’t in the city? You cannot still be standing in her shadow after becoming Mortal-Aspect of the Lady?’

  Her shoulders fell and she looked at the ground for a few heartbeats, her expression unreadable, until she wrote on the slate.

  - Alone now.

  ‘What about Lord Isak?’

  - Need to send message.

  Doranei nodded. ‘Sebe can do that for you - he can take it to your wine merchant at least. What do you need to tell him?’

  - News of Menin, Aracnan, lost contact Zhia, injured.

  ‘Where is Zhia?’

  - Following.

  ‘You don’t know where she’s been?’

  Legana shrugged, the movement causing her to wince in pain. Her head sagged forward a little and Doranei realised she was trembling as the hand holding the chalk wavered uncertainly.

  He gently took the slate from her and said softly, ‘You’re exhausted. You need to sleep.’

  She didn’t respond at first and he repeated himself, louder. This time she gestured her agreement and allowed him to help her up. Without complaint from the former assassin, Doranei slipped an arm around her waist and half-carried her to one of the beds. She managed to slide herself back until she was leaning against the wall and she sat there, breathing hard, while Doranei fetched her slate and arranged a blanket over her.