by Tom Lloyd
Ahead was Death’s own house, the huge open doorway facing directly towards Celao’s palace. He could just make out a figure in black at the top of the steps. High above was the great dome that covered half the temple floor, a full, rounded tit that served to remind Celao that the priestesses there were all shrivelled, shrill harridans who plagued his every step. In the lee of that was the house of Belarannar, an altogether more pleasing temple of high walls and lush, shaded gardens that he, as Chosen of Ilit, was unwelcome in.
A gust of wind lifted up from the quarter and Celao’s wings, unbidden, half-opened to feel the press of air against his feathers. It had been a long time since he’d flown, since he’d looked down over the city and watched the normals scurry below.
He saw it in the eyes of foreign dignitaries when they saw his size, the wonder and incomprehension that turned swiftly into contempt. More than once Celao had though to cut off his wings, have some surgeon incise just there and there – to snip the dead weight from his back and relieve him of one small burden. Chosen of the weakest of Gods, lord of a haughty, empty tribe and set apart even from other white-eyes by a freakish body – Celao longed for release from it all. What little emotion he could summon was quietly directed at the God who’d made him thus.
‘And yet I do nothing,’ he said, addressing the squalid misery of his city with a tired voice. ‘I refrain even from following the child’s example. My priests are worthless shits, but they have long ago whipped this tribe into obedience. The only true value of a priest is to provide a different focus for their hatred.’
Celao glanced back at the canopied terrace he’d just walked from, lit by ornate, wrought-iron lanterns and a pair of braziers. A vast couch sat at the centre of the sheltered rooftop, big enough for Celao and his two current favourites, currently waiting patiently for his command. He hadn’t bothered to learn their names.
One was a Litse, long-limbed and elegant, the very picture of pale, porcelain beauty; the other, the older of the two, was a dark, lithe girl from the north. She was athletic to the point of muscular, and he’d had her worked almost to death when he first acquired her to ensure she was no agent of the Farlan. Her small features and sparkling eyes were a long way from the Litse definition of beautiful; it was why he preferred her, and most often made the Litse girl debase herself. After all, that one had been a nobleman’s daughter until Celao bought her. Earning trinkets with a whore’s tricks was what she’d been bred to do, whether or not she’d realised it at the time.
‘Wine.’
The blonde was the first to scramble up and pour him a goblet. Celao smiled as he accepted it; she knew her place and was eager to please him. The fearful eyes and desperate smile caused a stirring in him and once he’d taken the wine Celao caught her arm. A look was all it took and she sank to her knees, fumbling at his trousers. He turned to face the city again, grabbing her by the throat to manoeuvre her around until her back was pressed against the balcony rail and her face obscured by the roll of his belly.
From somewhere in the city below he heard a mournful wail, carried on the wind from the concealed streets. He peered down, unable to make anything out at that distance, unsure even whether it had been a citizen of Ismess or an echo from the Dark Place. That and other, stranger, things had been reported to him of late – voices in the wilderness and great spiralling flocks of bats skirting Blackfang’s forbidding slopes.
The whole Circle City was gripped with fervour and fear, but the reports of daemons attacking Byora had only made Celao laugh. At last some misfortunes had taken place outside the stained white walls of Ismess, descending upon some other people than the pathetic remnants of Ilit’s chosen. Slum fever gripped the outer districts, while reports of the white plague from the countryside meant he risked bringing the latter in to the city as he tried to alleviate the former.
The sound of wings came from the dark above him. Celao yanked at the girl’s hair and she stopped her softly moaning attentions, refastening his trousers with deft fingers just as a dark shape descended. A servant ran forward even before Lord Celao reached out a hand, offering a scimitar-bladed spear that Celao grabbed hard enough to send the man tumbling.
Up above he saw the dark shape of outstretched wings, a white-eye circling slowly. Celao hissed with anger: Gesh had been his Krann for mere weeks, and the impudent worm was already presumptuous. Aware he had betrayed his emotions already, Celao lowered his spear and closed his wings. Another disadvantage of the damn things – the first hint of violence and they would open, for balance as much as flight. Even from high above Gesh would have been able to see the effect of his presence.
‘My Lord,’ Gesh said as he banked with effortless grace and landed on the rooftop, his white formal robes dancing in the darkness like a moth’s wings, ‘I trust your evening has been pleasant.’
Celao didn’t reply immediately, letting the man wait as he was inspected. He was armed, of course, but with nothing more than his Ilit-granted bow and a dagger. He was without his ceremonial breastplate, a slender and austere sight, but Celao’s sharp eyes noticed the pearls at his throat and gold pins in his rich blond hair.
‘You forget your place, Krann,’ Celao said eventually. ‘You do not land here without an invitation from your lord.’
‘Under the circumstances, I thought it prudent.’
Gesh furled his own wings and let the light of the lamps onto his face. Normally Gesh was impassive to the point of condescension, but tonight the Krann’s expression was tense with anticipation.
‘Circumstances?’ Celao tightened his grip on his spear and checked his guards out of the corner of his eye. Both were alert, their weapons ready. He had taken great pains to ensure their loyalty: they were bonded men and the lives of their families were forfeit if Celao died.
‘I heard of a plot to assassinate you,’ Gesh announced, hands conspicuously empty of weapons. ‘I thought it best to flout custom.’
Celao waddled away from him, edging towards the guards, while Gesh stood still and watched him. ‘Soldier, summon my guards!’ Celao barked nervously.
‘I don’t think that will do any good.’ Gesh took a step towards him, and Celao drove unexpectedly forward, his spear outstretched. Fat he might have been, but Celao still had the speed and strength of the Chosen, and he could move faster than a normal man when he needed to.
‘Didn’t have the guts to try it yourself? I expected as much,’ Celao spat, pushing the tip of the spear right against Gesh’s chest. The enchanted steel neatly sliced through the cloth, but Gesh didn’t retreat, nor did he unfurl his wings.
‘I’m not here to kill you, nor have I arranged anything of the sort,’ he said with infuriating patience, ‘and your spear is pointing in the wrong direction.’
‘Do you take me for a fool?’
‘I think he was trying to help,’ said a voice behind Celao as a sword-tip pierced his shoulder.
Celao grunted with shock and tried to turn, but a second blade impaled him low in the ribs and held him fast, caught like a stuck pig. His mouth fell open, but the only sound that came out was a faint hiss of expelled air as pain struck him like a hammer. Then the swords were withdrawn and Celao staggered sideways, drunkenly reaching for his two guards. In their place was a single figure in diamond patchwork clothes and a ghostly white mask. Blood trailed from each of its swords, which were held outstretched, as though the figure was awaiting applause after a dance, while the bodies of his guards twitched on the ground either side of it.
‘You politicians, always looking for the hidden meaning in what men say.’
Celao tried to turn and bring his weapon up, but his arm was a lead weight, his legs treacherous. He lurched around and saw a slim man in black behind him, Harlequin swords in his hands and teardrop tattoos on his cheek. When he spoke, the man’s voice seemed to come from elsewhere, as though he was being used as a tool for some far-distant mage.
‘It is time for a new ruler in Ismess, do you not agree, Lord Gesh?’
Celao tried to lunge, but he was clumsy and slow; the man in black moved, faster than he could follow through the haze of pain, and battered the blade away. Celao felt the patter of blood on his left foot and wavered, fighting to keep standing.
‘A change, yes,’ said Gesh, his eyes never leaving Celao’s bow, still in its sheath, ‘but one I could have brought about myself.’
The assassin looked thoughtful for a moment, then he reached forward. Celao watched the tip of his sword draw close, but his body was unresponsive as the man prodded him gently in the shoulder, once, twice. The motion was so neat and deliberate Celao didn’t even feel any pain, but his spear fell from his fingers and his arm flopped dead. He staggered back a step before catching his balance and looked down in disbelief at the now-useless limb hanging at his side.
‘You got it on the second,’ the black clad assassin said, almost to himself. ‘It doesn’t count – I win.’ He paused and cocked his head at Gesh. ‘Certainly you could have done this. I suspect that fine bow was intended for just this task. Lord Ilit would not have chosen a Krann likely to miss such a target.’
‘In which case, do not consider me in your debt.’
‘Debt?’ The assassin giggled like a girl and Celao blinked. The man’s expression hadn’t changed from studious concentration, yet the laughter didn’t sound forced. ‘No debt; this is a gesture of friendship.’
‘No price?’
‘None. It serves our purpose that the Litse have a stronger ruler, one less encumbered by alliances and allegiances.’
‘One easily influenced.’
In the firelight the assassin’s shadow twitched and moved as though alive. ‘Influence is best achieved through gain – if Ruhen’s friendship aids your purpose, you will continue and further it.’
‘Friendship,’ Gesh said, without feeling.
The assassin said, ‘I realise it does not come easily to your kind, but pragmatism does. You can either ally yourself to us and restore your people’s glory, or watch us from the sidelines.’
‘What do you need?’
‘You could usefully turn a blind eye to a series of unfortunate accidents; beyond that I ask only that you allow us to help our friends: your poor need feeding, your borders need protecting. Your lost souls need nurturing.’
Gesh said, ‘Your preachers will minister to my people, feed them and tell them tales of a child sent to intercede with the Gods on their behalf.’
‘It is not the warrior they expected, perhaps, but that is the difference between what a man wants and what he needs. “A saviour comes in disguise, for we are tyrants to ourselves” wrote the poet Galasara.’
‘A heretic and enemy of the Gods.’
‘Beloved of the Gods in his time; he played no part in the Great War.’
Celao, ignored by both men, sank to his knees. The rooftop was slick with sticky blood. A chill was seeping into his limbs, leaving him light-headed and lumbering. He could feel the breeze on his skin, more real than the pain of his injuries and the trickle of blood on his thigh.
‘Ah, I almost forgot!’ the assassin exclaimed, and kicked Celao onto his back. The vast white-eye flopped back with a gasp, one wing pinned underneath him. The clouds raced above him, calling him up to join them; he could feel the tug of their presence, the freedom of the air he’d rejected all those years ago. His free wing extended weakly, brushing the terrace floor in an effort to extend.
‘There is one last thing,’ the assassin said, peering down at Celao with distaste. He held out a silver chain on which had been strung a coin. Celao watched it catch the light with wonder, his jaw working away as though he were trying to ask for it, but no sound came from his throat. ‘A symbol only, but we ask you to wear this in friendship.’
Gesh took it and inspected the coin. ‘No magic,’ he commented with surprise. ‘Something – a blessing? An echo?’
‘No magic,’ the assassin confirmed. ‘Do you accept Ruhen’s gift?’
‘I do,’ the white-eye said, tucking the coin away, ‘but I will not wear it – the priests will not stand for me to wear the symbol of any other than Ilit.’
‘As you wish, but keep it safe, and out of sight of prying eyes.’ The new Lord of the Litse nodded. ‘You, girl: what happened here tonight?’
The dark-haired girl approached, shivering with fear but unable to take her eyes off Celao as he wheezed his last on the floor. ‘The – the guards?’
‘No.’ Gesh glanced at the bodies of Celao’s bodyguard, then the assassin. ‘They were true to their duty. This was me alone, do you understand?’
‘“The conqueror’s hand holds life and death in the breadth of a palm”,’ breathed the assassin, watching her face with a strange expression of delight.
He gave the girl a knife from his belt and gestured to his Harlequin companion to do the same for the other girl.
‘A landed fish could not look so pathetic,’ the assassin said as their knuckles went white around the grips.
Celao’s eyes were wide with fury and fear as the pair crept close.
‘I think you two have earned the right to finish him as you see fit,’ the new Litse lord said.
Knight-Cardinal Certinse hesitated at the gate of the gaol as it opened, releasing a gust of festering air from the gaol’s depths: sweat, shit and other stenches he couldn’t even begin to identify. He shivered and put a perfumed cloth to his nose, but the stink overpowered even that. Although his companion wrinkled his nose, Sergeant Kayel’s evil smirk was unwavering.
Certinse gestured for the man to go first, and once Kayel’s back was turned, pinched the bridge of his nose in an effort to force away the ache behind his eyes. Somewhere in the street behind them something scraped over stone and Certinse cringed at the sound. For days now he had been jumping at shadows, distracted by the constant throb of sleeplessness ringing through his skull and hearing the distant echo of daemon-song on the wind.
The few minutes of sleep he managed were punctuated by horrific dreams of vengeful priests, of torture and pain that he could still feel in his bones hours later. His newly returned power had done little to calm his nerves. The round-up of zealot priests and their devoted followers had been swift and relatively bloodless: a handful of mysterious deaths had helped Certinse’s troops catch them by surprise and the majority of the troublemakers were now crammed into this ageing gaol. A tense peace gripped the streets of Akell, but Certinse found his anxiety only increased with every passing day of quiet.
‘How many, gaoler?’ Kayel asked up ahead.
The guard was wearing a Devoted sash. He scowled at having to answer an outsider’s question, but no one in the company of the Knight-Cardinal was to be denied, so he kept his temper as he replied, ‘More’n four hundred all told, sir.’
‘How many officers?’ Certinse said.
‘About a third, I’d reckon.’
‘Do you have a ledger of names?’
The soldier ducked his head, looking uncomfortable. ‘Some, Lord Cardinal. Others refused even after they got a beating for it. I know it’s our duty, but there’s a good fifty who won’t speak.’
‘Yet only a handful appeal to me for clemency – the rest remain defiant.’
Certinse sighed wearily and walked through the narrow gate into the squat block building which was set into a hump of black rock at the eastern end of the city wall, which gave it the impression of being slowly drawn into Blackfang Mountain. There were few windows on the outside walls.
‘They’re too far gone,’ Kayel commented as he headed into the guardroom. ‘Their minds are burned through with rage, and nothing you could do to them here will change that.’
Certinse had only two guards with him; the rest waited outside while the gate was locked and bolted behind them, but it was still cramped in the narrow passageway. Beyond the guardroom was a heavy iron grille, within which was a narrow gate that the guard now unlocked under the watchful gaze of a crossbow-armed colleague.
They followed the c
orridor to a gated stairway and walked up to the second floor where a second, empty guardroom overlooked another corridor with more locked doors. From beyond came the muted sounds of imprisoned men. Shadows around them slunk away from the light; further away they were as thick as the rancid flavour of the air.
‘My Lord Cardinal,’ the guard said with an apologetic look, ‘the higher-ranked prisoners are up here. This first cell holds the men who’re appealing for clemency, but—’ He stopped and shifted his feet and stared at the ground, not sure how to continue.
‘What is it, man?’ the sergeant prompted.
‘It’s High Priest Garash, my Lord. He’s confined and shackled, but he’s extremely violent. I – we – don’t know how to treat him, sir. Usually he’d be sent to the lower dungeon, but being a high priest—’
‘You’re wary of dropping him down a hole and forgetting him,’ Kayel finished with a grin.
Certinse stared down the corridor for a while, not speaking. The upper level had been built for prisoners of rank and it was certainly cleaner than the ground floor, but it remained a dank, dismal place. Kayel’s lamp illuminated the bare stone. Just as he was about to speak, a flicker of movement caught his eye at the far end of the corridor – just a glimpse, and he wasn’t sure it was even real, but it set his skin crawling. He shook off the feeling and asked, ‘They are all confined?’
‘Yes, my Lord, five to a cell up here. No one’s free to roam; even below ground they’re chained to the wall. We put your seven in leg-irons so you could call ’em out one by one.’
Certinse shivered, imagining the cold lower dungeon where the prisoner would be forced to wallow in his own waste. Inmates receiving special punishment would be left there. He blinked owlishly down the corridor, but there was no movement there now and the only sound was the echo of voices. There was no sign of the ragged cloak or skirt he thought he’d seen swish through the gloom, nor any glint of tarnished metal or dead eyes. The more he tried to recall the image, the more he realised it had to have been his imagination. There were no women among the prisoners – there were none at all of any rank in the Knights of the Temples.