by Tom Lloyd
She could hear the tramp of boots starting on the stairs further down, but she went on regardless. The floors in between were the largest, with dozens of rooms each; they wouldn’t reach her before the roof fell in and they raced back to find their leaders dead. With Lady Kinna following close behind, the Duchess of Byora ran through the deserted corridors to Erwillen’s Landing, named by one of her ancestors out of misplaced piety for the shrine to the High Hunter, an Aspect of Vellern, he had built there - he stationed archers in it to pick off supposed assassins.
The landing, painted with garish murals, was positioned immediately above the main entrance to the Ruby Tower. Tall windows looked over the entrance and down into the Duchess Chamber. The hanging shrine was suspended from the ceiling: a wrought-iron frame from which dangled a mass of feathers, brightly coloured ribbons and small icons bearing Erwillen’s image.
As she passed, the items trembled and she stopped to look at them. The colours were faded and weak. Natai touched the nearest feather lightly and it crumbled under her finger. She stared at the ash-like remains that fell into her palm for a moment before grabbing one of the painted wooden icons and crushing it in one hand as easily as if it were paper.
‘You’re dead. This shrine is drained and empty. This is only the first of many in Byora,’ Natai promised.
Looking down into the Duchess Chamber, all she saw was her vacant throne. The fixed stone seat, large enough for a child to sit comfortably beside Byora’s ruler, was set on a pedestal. There was a tall wooden frame behind, painted with the city’s livery. The scene was as still as a painting - until Sergeant Kayel staggered into sight and began to follow a meandering path towards a door behind the throne. Two penitents in black-painted mail followed briskly behind. They caught him with ease, one dodging a drunkenly swung bottle as the other cracked a club over Kayel’s head. The big soldier dropped to one knee with a grunt.
The Duchess of Byora felt her breath catch as the echo of footsteps came from somewhere below her. She could picture men hanging back, nervously watching the soldiers deal with Kayel before entering. The copper tang of blood appeared in her mouth and she realised she’d bitten her lip in anticipation, but before she could wipe it away a great creak rang out and the floor beneath her feet shuddered. Natai grabbed the windowsill to steady herself as the groan and crack of tortured brickwork intensified. She chanced another look down at the chamber. The two penitents were staring back in horror; even Kayel seemed momentarily frozen as the antechamber shuddered violently.
Natai froze. Kayel and the soldiers were not the only people in the chamber. She felt a scream bubble up in her throat, but fear drove the air from her lungs as a small figure toddled out from behind the throne, heading towards Kayel as something below her fell and shattered on the tiled antechamber floor. It was followed in the next moment by an almighty crash that reverberated through her body as the antechamber itself collapsed.
The violence of the shockwave drove Natai to her knees. A cloud of dust billowed out into the ducal chamber as she hauled herself forward to look out of the window again and through it she glimpsed Kayel lunging at one of the penitents. He kicked the back of the man’s legs and punched him in the throat as he fell, but the second was quick and lashed out with his club, sending Kayel sprawling. Natai went white as Ruhen tottered in between them, but the penitent didn’t follow up his attack.
Natai couldn’t see the enigmatic smile on the child’s face, but with arms held out wide for balance, Ruhen advanced towards the penitent with unsteady steps, perfectly unafraid. Natai couldn’t see the man’s expression, but she felt the sudden warmth of Ruhen’s beatific smile. He didn’t move, not even when Sergeant Kayel pulled himself to his feet and threw his sword like a throwing knife. The tip caught the penitent in the neck and felled him.
Before the sergeant could retrieve his weapon, an invisible hand seemed to slap him backwards. Natai could just make out the astonishment on Kayel’s face as a second blow threw him several yards back. Ruhen turned to follow his protector as two figures staggered into view from the ruin of the antechamber, shaking the dust from their robes and advancing unsteadily towards the child.
Fear lent strength to Natai’s limbs and restored her voice. With a shriek the duchess ran for the stair, kicking off her slippers but still barely keeping from breaking her neck as she descended. When she reached the room she found the two priests standing over Ruhen. The little boy was staring up at them, completely unafraid.
One of the men saw her and took a step backwards, looking shocked. She recognised the young man, even with his face twisted in hate - he was normally to be found standing quietly in the background at the Temple of Ushull. He raised his hand and she heard a strange noise, as if something was sucking air in. A coiling stream of energy began to form around the mage.
Natai, oblivious to the danger to herself, raced towards them and threw herself in front of the child, shrieking, ‘You will not hurt him!’
‘Filthy heretics,’ spat the other priest, a fat-cheeked man with white hair dressed in the distinctive scarlet robes of Karkarn. He was cradling his right arm but she could see sparks of red light dancing over his skin; he was still dangerous.
‘You will all die for this crime,’ he said.
‘No,’ said a quiet voice in her mind. She shivered, and looked at the priests. She saw in their faces that they had felt it too. She turned, but Kayel was still lying on the ground.
She felt as if she were frozen to the spot, unable to move any part of her body apart from her head - and it looked like the priests were similarly stricken. Only Ruhen appeared unaffected - and he was the only one not looking around for whoever had spoken.
With a calm smile on his face and a fistful of Natai’s dress bunched in his plump little hand to support himself, the little boy slowly made his way around her. He looked up at the priest of Karkarn, whose face was illuminated by the weird light of magic as he muttered an incantation. He faltered for a moment, then the hatred reasserted itself and he drew in deeply, the light intensifying.
Natai tried to reach out to Ruhen, but her limbs would not respond and all she could do was watch as the child reached out a hand and waggled his stubby little fingers towards the priest - but his little wave seemed to strike the priest like a blow and the trails of magical lights vanished. He gave a strangled squawk of shock and dropped to his knees, clutching his heart, before collapsing onto the tiled floor.
The priest of Ushull’s astonished expression turned just as swiftly into a paroxysm of pain. He fell just as quickly, one hand protectively around his throat, and twitched and shook on the ground, his mouth stretched wide in a silent scream.
Ruhen was silent as he watched the two men die, though Natai thought she could hear voices whispering all around them. She flinched when the little boy turned to face her, but instead of the horror she had been expecting, Ruhen’s face was just the same as ever. His cheeks dimpled suddenly as he gave her a big beaming grin and spread his arms wide, demanding to be carried.
The duchess swept him up in her arms and turned in a circle, glaring at the faces watching them until they all fled, leaving her alone with the boy in her arms and the sergeant, now groggily lifting himself up off the ground and slurring his way through a stream of invective. Natai didn’t wait to thank him but, holding Ruhen tight in her arms and breathing in the sweet scent of his hair, she headed back up the stairs, not stopping until she was at the top of the Ruby lower and the whispers were left far behind.
Venn felt his body jerk as a swirl of shadow raced past his eyes. His dry, cracked lips had stuck together, so his waking breath was more of a weak, tuneless whistle, though it was enough to attract the attention of the tall priestess sitting a few yards away. When she saw he was awake she picked up a bowl of soup that had been cooling nearby and walked over to him.
Her face had lost none of the strength he’d first noticed, before she had established herself as his nursemaid. She was a handsome woman, an
d her looks had not diminished under age’s onslaught. She had not yet gone so far as to cast aside the half-mask set with obsidian shards, but he could sense she was close. She saw purpose in him, in every word he spoke. She would be Azaer’s fiercest follower, the child’s most pitiless defender.
‘Even mountains fail in the course of time. Even glaciers melt away to nothing. A gradual decline is irresistible in all things.’
He had abandoned the forms of instruction used by the Harlequins, for they were no longer necessary. He spoke little these days, constantly drained by the effort of keeping two hearts beating, two minds working. Jackdaw was entirely dependent on him to stay alive so Venn could not afford to waste his strength on idle talk.
The priestess knew well how hard speaking had become for him. She crouched at his side, eyes bright as she realised she would be the one to pass on this latest pronouncement. The others would have to sit at her feet and wait for her to speak, for the narcotic tingle of truth rushing through their minds.
‘Even the greatest see their time end. To be a parent is to one day be eclipsed, to be shown to be in weakness, in error.’
Venn heard her breath catch, a question bitten off before it could be spoken. She was close enough that he could smell the musky tang of her sweat and sour breath, even over the incense-laden air. She had been waiting for him to wake for half a day, without drinking or eating. He could smell her eagerness.
‘Who then,’ he said slowly, his own throat dry and raw, ‘could chastise the Gods themselves for their failings? Where is that perfect individual, who could raise a hand and censure the very Gods who created him? When our Gods fail us, to whom must we pray for intercession in this life of woe?’
CHAPTER 15
Grisat looked around at the men in the room, who were all nervously shifting in their seats. Each one was as fearful as he. They’d ditched their penitent robes and were back in civilian garb, with mail, jerkins and weapons wrapped in bundles so that they wouldn’t look like mercenaries, let alone soldiers employed by the cult of Ushull. Grisat hadn’t yet heard of any repercussions, but he knew they were coming and he had no intention of staying around to catch any of them.
He’d discussed the situation with Bolla, who had agreed with him. All the priests’ leaders had died at the Ruby Tower and there was no one left of any consequence. It was time to collect the cash and walk away. Some would stay, but those he’d talked to - those he’d be able to trust now - had been of similar mind. They’d just been waiting for someone to give them a kick in the right direction.
Grisat waved away a moth, causing half the room to jump. ‘Piss and daemons,’ he growled, ‘yer jumpin’ like frightened rabbits.’ He didn’t tell them their reactions had made his heart jump into his throat. Fortunately, they were all so distracted, none had noticed.
‘We’re jus’ on edge, man, tha’s all. Why’re you flappin’ yer arms around anyway?’ snapped Astin, the tall Litse with the knife-scar across his nose.
Grisat pointedly ignored the man. Damn Litse, can’t keep their sodding mouths shut. Shame he’s more use than the rest; a Litse won’t take order from the likes of me for too long.
He drained the pitcher of beer he’d been nursing, burped, and pushed himself upright. ‘Right, goin’ for a piss. You lot try not t’shit yourselves when I come back.’
He clapped a hand on Bolla’s shoulder as he pushed past. Without his leather jerkin on, Bolla felt all bones under Grisat’s palm. The lanky mercenary nodded in response and shoved his wad of numbroot to the other side of his mouth.
Grisat went out into the short dark corridor and checked left and right. There was no one there - not surprising, since the group had taken the whole attic room of the inn. Childishly he thumped a fist against the wall as he headed for the stair, eliciting a yelp from within, and headed down to the back yard, where the stinking outhouse was located.
It was already dark outside, and cold. It hadn’t felt like the sun had had much effect that day - until nightfall, when you felt the temperature plummet. Grisat shivered and breathed onto his hands, then clapped them together, trying to keep them warm. He stepped into the pitch-black outhouse and edged his foot forward until he reached the gutter.
His breeches unbuttoned, Grisat pulled out his cock and sighed with relief as the hot stream began to splatter unseen over the floor around the gutter. Two seconds later, he felt the prickle of a knife-tip in the back of his neck.
The stream of urine stopped almost immediately as Grisat froze. He’d seen and heard no one, so that meant someone had been waiting for him in there. So not one of his group, that was for sure.
‘Aren’t you glad I waited?’ said a deep voice in his ear. The accent was like none he’d ever heard, overly precise, like a foreigner, and a nobleman at that. ‘If I’d put my knife there before you started, the opposite would have happened.’
Grisat managed a gurgle in reply. This was someone completely comfortable with a weapon: that dagger hadn’t moved a fraction as the man had leaned in to speak to him. He felt fingers grabbing a lock of his hair and decided not to move; he’d drunk too much to be fast enough to reach his own dagger and the unseen stranger didn’t appear to be in any great rush to kill him. The dagger point withdrew for a moment - presumably for the stranger to cut off the hair - and then returned. Grisat kept as still as he could all the while.
‘At least you’ve got the brains not to try it,’ the voice continued conversationally. ‘Who wants to take their last breath face down in an outhouse?’
Grisat grunted. He realised the dagger had nicked him and resisted the urge to nod as well.
‘Now, if your eyes aren’t open at the moment open them now. Don’t turn round.’
Grisat blinked. At first all he could see was the darkness, which gave way to a green glow which illuminated the interior of the outhouse enough for him to be able to make out the gutter running down the centre of the room and the two thin pillars holding up the poor excuse for a roof. He looked down. His cock had withered to half the size of his thumb. Despite the cold night air he felt a warm flush of embarrassment as he waited for more instructions.
‘See the light? That tells you I’m a mage, so you will know I haven’t taken a lock of your hair to keep as a memento.’
Grisat stiffened, and felt the dagger dig a little further into his skin.
‘I see you grasp the situation; good. Now, I know who you are and I know who your employer is. What I want you to do is return to the temple and act the good penitent again.’
‘You were sent after us?’ Grisat croaked in disbelief.
‘Not quite, but I want you back there all the same. The clerics have been broken, but there’s still some life left in the cults, and you are going to be the one to organise unrest in the city - at my direction, of course. I intend there to be a secret war in Byora, a guerrilla resistance to Natai Escral’s inevitable measures against the cults.’
‘Father Hiren is in charge and he hates me,’ Grisat began. ‘I don’t know that he’ll even take us back.’
‘If he doesn’t, go to the Temple of Karkarn - you will need to be convincing, but at least the warrior-priests will be useful for more than just political backing.’
‘Why me?’
He heard a soft laugh. ‘One monkey is as good as any other. I choose the one who pisses highest.’ The dagger pushed a little deeper and Grisat gave a small yelp. ‘I will be keeping track of your progress - you have one week, or I shall prove just how adept a mage I am. You’ll find a little hair goes a long way.’
Without warning the pressure on the back of his neck was lifted and the faint green light winked out. Grisat listened to the rapid, insistent thump within his own chest for a dozen heartbeats before he turned around. He wasn’t surprised to discover the outhouse empty and the yard beyond it as silent as the grave.
‘Shit,’ he muttered as he took a step back away from the shadows and into the gutter.
‘Opening at dusk, Harys? Are y
ou practising for something?’
The broad-hipped woman gave a gasp of shock and whirled around in a flurry of green silk. Kohl outlined her pale blue eyes and her blonde hair was piled elaborately on top of her head. She stood in the centre of a room too poorly lit to betray the threadbare state of the sofas to normal eyes. A pair of teenage whores hovered at her side.
One of the girls gave a small cry of surprise when the shadows fell away to reveal two other figures in the room. At a look from Harys the whores both fled past the heavy curtain that served as a door, and Zhia caught a glimpse of the hallway, which was considerably less ornate - and less garish - than this room. She could see why the lighting was so bad in here, where the house’s patrons were plied with drink whilst enjoying the talents of the singers Harys employed; with their clothes on, people had enough time to notice their surroundings.
‘Mistress, I apologise - you startled me. I had not known you were even in the city,’ Harys gabbled as she sank into a deep curtsey and looked up at the newcomers as though squinting at the sun. ‘My Lord.’
‘We did not want to announce our presence to the city,’ Zhia replied. She didn’t bother to add that they’d been listening to Harys’ conversations for the last hour, gauging not just the state of the brothel business, but also ensuring there were no other loyalties binding the woman.
‘Shall I have wine brought to the high room for you?’ Harys asked.
‘And food.’
Harys hesitated, then started, ‘I have a new girl here - ‘
‘Oh don’t be such a fool, woman,’ Zhia snapped impatiently, ‘actual food; a meal to go with our wine. I intend to talk over supper. Now do get up and see to it, if you would.’