The Less Lonely Planet

by Rhys Hughes

  The tower itself, when he finally reached it, did not live up to expectations. It was a rather squat affair and in no better condition than similar structures dotted around the city. Hardly a suitable storehouse for wealth beyond dreams. There were no windows; Carabal tried the iron door, but it would not budge. To his alarm, a stone gargoyle mounted above turned its head to look at him.

  “A living gutter spout!” he exclaimed.

  “Not at all.” The gargoyle’s voice was surprisingly smooth. “I am an afrit temporarily trapped in this form by my master, Lord Adrab. It is a punishment for the time I slighted him.”

  “Bah!” Carabal shook his fist at the granite avatar. “An erosion on your igneous head! May a meteorite kiss your coarse-grained skull! I demand admittance!”

  “The key?” The gargoyle blinked sightless eyes.

  Carabal pulled his nose in thought. He studied the tongue of the living statue. He had little to lose. He placed the amulet, now pointing directly sideways, onto the tongue. It was a perfect fit. Slowly the jaws closed, holding it fast, and the door swung open with a ponderous grating. Carabal chuckled and entered.

  The interior of the tower was softly illuminated by suspended jars of fireflies. The fabled wealth was not immediately apparent; the floors were all bare stone and the walls were similarly unadorned. It was chill in the tower; Carabal pulled his cloak more tightly about his shoulders and drew his sword. A confusing number of doors and stairways led off from this first chamber. Carabal chose one at random.

  “By Xdroog! By the winged cheeses of Memirir!”

  He could hardly contain his excitement. In this new chamber things were much more to his liking. His thief’s instincts, as sharp as those of a feral cat, had led him here with little ado. At the far end of the room, a ruby as big as a roc’s egg sparkled alluringly.

  Carabal re-sheathed his blade and stepped forward, arm outstretched to snatch the jewel off its pedestal. At last he would be able to afford all those things he had dreamed about for so long. A ruby as large as this would buy him a palace to rival that of the Mad Twist.

  Before he could snatch the gem, a strange thing happened. The floor gave way beneath him. And then everything went black.

  He awoke to a curious grumbling and wailing. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he saw that he was lying on a vast circular platform. But he was not alone. Men and women of a hundred different races were sitting or standing near him. He blinked. “What?”

  A figure near him turned at the sound of his voice and gave him a hearty kick in the ribs. “Awake now, eh?” The fellow was a rough type, a Southerner by the look of him. Carabal sprang to his feet and winced as the pain caught up with him. “Where am I?”

  “Beneath the tower of Lord Adrab the Unlikely,” answered a pale girl with dark hair and menacing eyes. “As if you didn’t know!”

  “Aye! Seal our dooms for us, would you?” This came from a lithe cowled man. Carabal recognised the tattooed lips and filed teeth of an assassin from Khyor. He felt at his belt and realised he still had his sword. He loosened it in his scabbard and warily glanced around.

  “Back! Or by Tswyeth and Yclip I’ll have your livers!”

  All in all, he decided, he was not in the best of company. All those gathered had the stamp of the criminal about them. There were footpads from the cities of the north; pickpockets and cutpurses from the markets of the east; blustering highwaymen from the forests of the west; barbarian pillagers from the south. He noticed buccaneers from the Conspirito Coast and corsairs from half-sunken Amberzar. There was even an Amazonian bandit from the steamy jungles of Viragoush. Her bracelets were live snakes that hissed and reared.

  “You are no more to be blamed than anyone else.” A sallow figure in faded motley approached Carabal and smiled bleakly. He turned to the assembly. “Fellow reavers! Do we forget our manners?”

  “Manners? We have none. Besides, he is the thousandth. That means we all die. Had he not come we would have been spared.”

  Carabal frowned. He studied his surroundings more carefully. They seemed to be standing on the summit of some enormous pillar that jutted out of unfathomable deeps. But the pillar was contained within a single room. On one wall of this room, separated from him by an immense gulf, a narrow ledge projected a little way out over the abyss. High above, a ceiling spanned all. He noticed an outline directly above.

  “A trapdoor!” he cried. “I fell here from above!”

  “Aye. As did we all.” The assassin from Khyor nodded sombrely. “We all set our minds on that ruby. We all stepped forward and plummeted down into this hateful place. Over the years our numbers have increased. You are the thousandth.”

  “I was the first!” A feeble man stepped forward through the crowd. “I have seen them all come, one by one.” He glowered at Carabal. “Why did you not stay at home?” He pounded weakly on Carabal’s chest. “Now it is all over with us! Lord Adrab will barter our souls.”

  Carabal snorted. “This is absurd. You are an imbecile! I chanced upon Lord Adrab this very night and slew him, not knowing who he was. When I stole the amulet I did not know its worth. In a tavern I was made aware of its purpose.”

  The gruff fellow who had first addressed Carabal laughed bitterly. “That is what happened to us all. We all slew Lord Adrab and followed the amulet to his tower. He has made an arrangement with the barman of that tavern. It is how he gains his souls. Only the souls of thieves are of any use to him. Only the souls of those willing to steal the amulet. In return, he leaves the barman alone.”

  Carabal shook his head. “A raving madness on your ill-formed brain! I clove him through the heart. He is surely dead.”

  The pale girl placed her hand on Carabal’s shoulder. “His heart is the ruby. He does not take it out with him.”

  Carabal sank to his knees. “Then what does he want of us? Why are we waiting here atop this pillar? I feel like a cursed stylite! But I’ll not go down without a fight. I give up my soul to no man!”

  The assassin from Khyor ground his incisors together. “That’s just the point. Lord Adrab is not a man. He is a demon who was expelled from Hell. Many aeons ago, he was given the task of decorating Tartarus. Apparently he did such a bad job, choosing colours that did not clash and furnishings that were comfortable, that his colleagues kicked him out. He was exiled to our world.”

  “I still don’t understand.” Carabal was too despondent to find an imaginative curse for the man. All his dreams had been shattered. Far from proving himself the finest thief in Abarak, he had not only failed dismally but had not even been the first to so fail.

  “The demons told Lord Adrab that they would readmit him to Hell once he had collected exactly a thousand thieves.” The assassin sighed again. “Once he had gathered that number, he would summon his brothers and they would rise from the deeps around us to inspect his collection. Then they would feast on our souls and they would take him back with them. You are the thousandth and thus our doom!”

  “We know all this,” the man in faded motley interrupted, “because Lord Adrab often taunts us with such knowledge from that platform.” He indicated the narrow ledge Carabal had earlier noted.

  Even as he spoke, the door that led onto the platform slid open and a tall shadow stepped out over the precipice. Carabal saw that it was indeed the fellow he had earlier killed and robbed.

  A hush fell over the gathered thieves. Lord Adrab opened his mouth and his voice was like the rustling of the pages of a mouldy grimoire. “An excellent night’s work,” he hissed. “I hope that you have done your best to make our new arrival comfortable. He’ll not be with you for long. I have already struck the crystal bell that will summon my old companions from below. They will be here shortly. Though it takes nine days to fall down to Hell, they can scale the pillar in as many hours. Thank you for everything, my friends!”

  With a theatrical bow, he vanished back through the doorway. The thieves fell once more into groaning and wailing. Carabal frowned and stroke
d his chin. “What will happen if there are less than a thousand thieves when the demons come up?”

  The pale girl eyed him suspiciously. “They will think that Lord Adrab is trying to trick them. He will never be readmitted. They will close the portals of Hell and he will be trapped up here.”

  “Don’t think about escape,” the gruff Southerner muttered. “It’s too late now. That gulf is too wide to jump. We had plans once. We were going to twine a rope bridge from Zakira’s hair.” He pointed at the Amazonian bandit, whose tresses where flowing out around her like the waves of a tempestuous sea. “We have half the required length. It would have taken us another year or so.”

  Carabal smiled ambiguously. “I was not thinking of escape, although I do have a secret. I was thinking that there is nothing to stop me killing one of you and reducing the number of thieves to less than a thousand.” And before anyone could protest, he had driven his sword through the abdomen of the oldest thief.

  “Not again!” the feeble man cried. Carabal withdrew his blade, but no blood came with it. The man remained on his feet.

  “Perhaps I should have mentioned that Lord Adrab has placed a charm on this platform. We are temporarily immortal!” The assassin bared his teeth at Carabal. “We have already tried that.”

  “Always on me!” groaned the oldest thief.

  Carabal pondered. “Why then does no-one hurl themselves into the pit? It lies all around. Any direction will suffice. Is there not one here brave enough to sacrifice their life for the others?”

  “Not life, but something more precious.” The gruff fellow came up behind Carabal. “Anyone who falls loses their souls – eventually. You heard Lord Adrab. Nine days to fall.”

  “Why not throw yourself off?” The pale girl demanded.

  “No, but I shall have another!” Carabal seized the oldest thief and attempted to force him towards the edge. No-one made a move to stop him, but it made no difference. His secret was also his failing. With hollow bones he was simply not strong enough to move even this frail figure. He finally gave up and collapsed with a heavy sigh.

  “It seems then that I must swallow my fear and take a gamble,” he finally told them. He took a couple of deep breaths and rubbed at his legs. “How far is that platform, do you think?”

  “Sixty feet at least! You’ll never make it!”

  With a whoop of terror, Carabal sprinted towards the edge of the platform and launched out into space. For long moments he hung over the vast abyss. Below in the deeps, clouds broiled and miniature bolts of lightning flickered – illumination for the whole artificial cavern. Beneath these, he seemed to discern nameless shapes slithering up the pillar. And then he was suddenly scrabbling at the ledge, clinging on by his fingernails and hauling himself up.

  He made an elaborate bow, mimicking Lord Adrab. “My secret!” he cried. “Hollow bones! I can recommend them for situations such as these. Well now, my fine fellows, it seems that I must depart. I would love to stay for the party but I have other obligations!”

  “Will you help to rescue us?” the pale girl called out.

  “Rescue? Bah! A crawling misery on your shoulders! Having said that, what is about to visit you will be far worse, so I’ll leave off the oaths for the nonce. Well adieu!”

  He ducked out through the narrow doorway and slipped through the tower. He was gratified to find that the main door opened to emit him. On the other side, he saw that the gargoyle had its mouth open in a wide yawn. Without stopping to think, he snatched the amulet back. This was pure instinct; the reflexes of a true thief.

  “Halt! Come back with that!” the gargoyle snapped.

  He raced out into the more homely horrors of Abarak, no longer caring whither he went. But he felt elated with himself. He may not have gained anything from the adventure save his life, yet he had proved that he was, in one way at least, superior to his peers. He knew only one way to give vent to his delight. He threw back his head and shouted:

  “By the flightless Seraphim of Yonkel!”

  After an hour or two of fleeing, Carabal discovered that he had wandered into one of the lower levels of the City. He paused to regain his breath and rest his aching limbs. His fear had started to wear off. In its wake came a mighty rumbling hunger.

  He sighed and debated what to do next. He was still penniless and bruised into the bargain. He was too weary for more thieving this night. He would have to try to secure a meal by less energetic means.

  “Bah! A festering rot on this penury!”

  He had the amulet in his hand. It was feasible that he could find another tavern and trade it for wine and bread. Some barman or other might be gullible enough to mistake it for an object of no small worth. It might even purchase a bed for the night.

  He continued his perambulations at a more leisurely pace. As he walked he thought about the destiny of the thieves trapped on the top of that pillar. He also considered Lord Adrab.

  When the demons arose from the pit to find the collection of souls one short what would happen to their exiled brother? Would they really close the portals of Hell and leave him stranded above? Would Abarak be forever cursed with his presence?

  The assassin from Khyor had said that Lord Adrab the Unlikely had been an interior decorator down in Hell. Would he pursue this calling throughout the Uneven Lands? It was a thought scarcely worthy of serious contemplation: the décor of nightmare.

  One thing pleased Carabal. Now that he had the amulet, Lord Adrab would not be able to race back out onto the streets in an attempt to find another thief before his brothers arrived. Carabal could not say why this thing pleased him. Normally he cared nothing for his fellow beings. Was he growing soft?

  “May Sthuaggoz gnaw my conscience!” he bellowed.

  Ahead he had a choice of two alleyways to venture down. One led upwards, back towards the stars. At its end, Carabal could just make out a tavern nestling among tall houses. The other led downwards, towards the deepest part of the lowest level, towards the underground river that provided the citizens of Abarak with their foul water. There were no taverns down there and the streets were unlit.

  The choice was an obvious one. But Carabal hesitated.

  His own actions bewildered him. Why did he not make straight for the tavern? There was warmth there and good wine. Downwards there was only more gloom and misery.

  He knew the answer to his question, though he struggled to deny it. If he made his way to the tavern and succeeded in bartering the amulet for food and drink, there was the possibility that the barman or some other drinker would follow the amulet back to the tower. There was a slight chance that they would come upon the ruby and reach out to steal it. And then there would be a thousand souls again.

  Carabal screwed up his face. Why should he care what happened to fools and idiots? But in his mind’s eye he could see the nameless monsters clambering up the pillar towards their destination. Lord Adrab said it would take nine hours for them to reach the summit. There were still a handful of these hours left.

  The choice remained: tavern or river.

  “Bah! May Krug break a molar on my pate!” he stormed, heading off down the darker alleyway. Against his better judgment, he had decided to hurl the amulet into the fetid waters of the subterranean river. This way he could be certain of foiling Lord Adrab once and for all.

  It was dark down here. Even his keen birdlike eyes were unable to see further than a couple of yards ahead. On each step he took, he cursed himself viciously. The horrible thought had entered his head that he might be turning good.

  Suddenly he felt a crushing weight on the back of his skull. His face struck the hard cobbles of the ground. He could taste blood and dirt and then the outer darkness merged with the inner.

  The burly thief dropped his cudgel and kneeled down beside the prone body. His victim had put up no resistance at all. And he had broken into pieces with astonishing ease. Almost as if his bones were not solid. The burly thief shook his head.

  Searching the bod
y, he found an amulet inscribed with abstract runes. It was a curious object. When he held it up, it refused to hang straight but slanted to one side. He wondered.

  The Golden Fleas

  The girl in the wood is playing her pipes. I want to chase her down the hill to the sea. My nature compels me to run after any woman who places lips to reed. But there is a haunting quality to her music, a spirit I have not heard for a long time. So I watch in mute appreciation, peeping at her from the depths of the olive grove.

  My fleas are troubling me again. “Hurry up, old fool!” they snarl. They make me dance; not to melody which would be welcome, but to pain. “Hurry up, looks like rain!” Sometimes they call me names. Their satire is always biting. “Somebody got your goat?”

  Once, like Marsyas, I challenged Apollo to a music-contest and lost. Rather than flaying me alive — the usual punishment for defeat — the archer-king cursed me with sentient fleas. I have to consult them on all topics. A condition of the curse is that I am not allowed to rid myself of the pests. I have to avoid water and take shelter in a cave when clouds knock together.

  Rain is sweet on Kérkira, as infrequent as the willing kiss of another man’s wife. But I have to huddle under rock and wait. No dew must splash my legs, no juice dribble down my chin. Created by the god of light, my parasites are burnished gold. Water would wash the colour out of them. If this happened, Apollo would be displeased. My skin would make a rug for his burning feet.

  Yet I know I will be rescued one day. In dreams I see my saviour. He comes from a distant land on a fast ship. He combs the fleas from my fur and takes them back with him. Not even Apollo can oppose him. But his actions are founded on a misunderstanding. This life of ours is a harmony of mistakes, each blunder a note on the stave of reality. What my saviour does for me is not what he ought to do.

  I will say nothing, I will not betray my luck. On the slopes of my islands’s highest peak, I gaze at Illyria’s distant shore. The city of Butrint, full of cool stone and heated baths, nestles just beyond the range of my slitted eyes. There are only villages on Kérkira, the rude dwellings of a pastoral people. But we do have shrines where shepherds leave offerings to the nymphs and satyrs. The gods are given wine and honey, but we are content with milk and flowers.