by Andy Graham
“You just saved him. You should have thought of that when you were down there swinging on the rope. You’re a Riverman. The 10th Legion are paid to fight and think independently of the chain of command. Your problem is you don’t always do joined-up thinking.” Aalok’s voice began to rise.
“I couldn’t let him die just because he’s from Mennai, sir.”
“Did you bang your head when you were swinging on that rope, Franklin?” Aalok stabbed his finger towards the shivering man. “This man is not our kind. On missions like these, we protect our own and no-one else.”
“Sub-Corporal Orr is practically from Mennai, too, sir. Is he not our kind, too?”
Aalok rubbed the greying stubble covering his jaw. He regained control with a visible effort. “When you’re in the legions, any legion, not just the 10th, ‘our kind’ means the ones in the same uniform or the ones you are told are ‘our kind’. This man is not in our uniform and I’m telling you he is not ‘our kind’. Ditch that overactive moral compass of yours. The world of a legionnaire is made of absolutes, not maybes.” What had started as a restrained whisper ended in a full-blown shout.
The squad had heard the rumours of Aalok’s chequered disciplinary record, of him near throttling a senior officer over a card game, but no one had proof or wanted to ask. Whatever the truth, Ray had rarely heard Aalok raise his voice in anger until now.
“You and I have some ground rules to go over again, Franklin,” Aalok said through gritted teeth. “Or would you like me to throw you back into the clutches of the drill sergeants? I’ll make sure that forty-five minutes of up-downs are the nice bit of your punishment.”
“No, sir.”
“Good. And your thinking privileges have been revoked until further notice.” Aalok jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Get him out of here, Orr, while I clear up this mess.”
“C’mon, Pretty Boy.” Orr half-pulled, half-supported Ray towards the waiting chopper. As they stumbled away, Ray snatched a look over his shoulder. Aalok, lean and menacing, rifle in hand, towered over the wretched figure shivering on the floor. One of Stann Taille’s Hallowtide spirits had come to claim his due. The red mist gathered around them, getting thicker until it engulfed them both.
3
The Ward
Crudely hewn stone threw torchlight across the chamber. It flickered red and gold through smoke that twisted under the vaulted brick ceiling. The smoke crept between pillars and curled around the huge blocks of obsidian hanging between brass sconces. Heavy wooden doors were pushed shut. Hooded faces turned to scrutinise the late arrivals. The newcomers disappeared into the crowd as the rustle of secretive chatter resumed.
The underground chamber was dominated by two clusters of columns separated by another block of obsidian. In the dark times after the Great Flood, the rock had been known as witchglass. Yet another myth that had refused to die in the Silk Revolution. The first four columns were arranged in a diamond shape. Fashioned from rough stone, they had been carved with roots sprouting across the floor, mirroring the branches that supported the ceiling. A triangle of three more columns stood on a raised dais on the far side of the chamber. These had been polished so hard it was rumoured you could see the reflection of your last lie.
Box-like, rotund, lean, lanky, whip-thin, bowed or proud, all manner of people jostled for the best space among the columns. Some stood stock still, ignoring their fidgeting neighbours, a few talked in furtive whispers. Others shuffled expectantly. All wore hooded cloaks. Originally the same cut and colour, they soon became as varied as the people they hid. There was no such thing as a hand-me-down, no second-generation material. You leave, it burns. Only the cloak of the slim acolyte standing behind the altar was different. It was the same sky blue as that of the woman who led this group: the Famulus.
The last person to arrive snatched a glance at her colleagues and rearranged her hood. Cold hands and wet feet were bad enough but clammy cloth clinging to the back of her neck? Unforgivable. It was bad enough to tempt her to use the communal robes kept for the uninitiated. Problem was, you never knew who had been wearing them. Not for the first time, Stella wished she could find time to dry hers without anyone noticing.
She frowned. She’d thought of the large block of stone between the columns as an altar. Apparently, that was ‘not encouraged’. But as far as she was concerned it was an altar. The obsidian block — Not witchglass. That’s a silly name. — dwarfed its cousins hanging on the wall. It also had a gentle slope leading down to a central groove. Stella had already noted that the altar was large enough for a grown man to lie on.
She shuddered and pulled the hood farther down over her face, aware of eyes crawling across her clothes like spiders. She was sure she wasn’t the only one trying to guess profession and status from what was partially hidden under the cloaks. They weren’t supposed to do it but it kept her mind busy in the more tedious sections of the ceremony. The Ward, this secret society she attended, claimed to welcome everyone, and all manner of people made their way here. “Even the clumsy,” she muttered as someone stepped on her toes.
She shuffled away from Big Foot and the-altar-that-wasn’t-an-altar. There was a clang from behind the door, a low curse. Stella coughed to hide a smile then jumped as the wooden doors boomed. The doors shuddered again and again, sending a shower of dust down from the ceiling. Every impact quieted the hubbub of whispers a little more until the seven echoes merged and faded.
The doors swung open silently. They missed a trick there. A little ominous creaking wouldn’t have gone amiss. A little B-Movie chic. Standing behind them was a slender figure dressed in a long saffron gown and a sky blue cloak. Clutched between two hands was a huge sword, its point resting on the stone floor. Sweat-stained leather wrapped the long hilt, the blade was plain.
Stella’s first thought when she’d seen it on her so-called ‘maiden visit’ was that there should have been runes on the blade. Surely something archaic, esoteric or even just unreadable would add to the mystique? Her next, more practical thoughts had been where do you find something like that, and how do you hide it in this day and age?
The figure swept into the room, cape swirling, smoke snatching at the hem of her gown. The doors closed and the sword was slammed through the wooden brackets.
“With this sword we are sealed,” the Famulus said in ringing tones.
“With this sword we are one,” the crowd intoned. Stella mumbled the words along with the others as the woman swept forwards and the ceremony began.
After what felt like an hour of listening to distilled gibberish, Stella leant against a wall in the undercroft, a full glass in one hand. Wooden trestle benches huddled together, splitting the rectangular room into squares and rectangles. An occasional gate-legged table punctuated the stone floor between them. The air was filled with the rustle of whispers as the devotees clambered up the stairs from the ceremonial chamber. Everyone was quiet because no one wanted to be the first person to speak too loudly, just like kids. Custom dictated that Stella mix and discuss the homily. Right now, she’d rather gargle sawdust.
The Ward was supposed to be enlightening, ‘a way forwards by going backwards to the way the world had been before humankind bastardised it’. But after two rough night shifts in the hospital, she’d found some parts of the evening even sillier than usual. She was sure there were people here seeking an answer beyond that which the state dictated, but most were there to be seen. For her, the Ward fulfilled another need.
“Didn’t enjoy the ceremony?” asked a man.
Stella jumped, pulling her hood over her face. “No. I mean, yes. It was... enlightening.”
“Really?” The man plucked at his cloak with manicured finger nails. “I found it tedious. The Famulus has given better talks.”
The little of his face not covered by his hood was blocked by the glass he was holding. Smart, scruffy or uniformed, the people here only let others see what they wanted them to see from under their cloaks. They were the ea
sy ones to guess. This man was different.
Was this a test? She’d heard rumours of people being disfellowed but had no one to discuss it with. There had been uglier rumours, too, of women from the society disappearing. These whispers pulled at something deep within her that she would rather avoid.
“I’d offer you a drink but I see you already have one,” he said, eyes flashing under the pristine white cloth of his hood.
Had he really ironed it? “Maybe later,” she mumbled.
Around them, the room was filling up. The screech of wood being dragged across stone floors competed with the clink of glasses. As the voices relaxed, the volume crept up. The stranger inched closer. Stella caught the stale smell of mint. She felt the need to fill the pocket of silence around them, to say something meaningful, something appropriate to the moment, when she found herself frowning. ‘A face like a bag full of lines’, her dad used to say. The irritation grew worse when she realised she’d already begun her to-do checklist for the following day. Tomorrow’s responsibilities, she decided, could wait a little longer. She held out her glass to be refilled. “What would you have preferred to listen to?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” the man replied. His half-smile gleamed in the dull yellow bunker lights. “Something about the Higher Elements for a change, or something new, exciting, dangerous even.”
“I don’t think they do dangerous here.”
“Of course they do. Just by being here we’re in danger. Not exactly mortal peril but dangerous enough for questions to be asked. Questions lead to rumours and they’re more dangerous than facts.”
There was something about his voice, something that nagged at her. He took a step forwards, too close. The low brick ceiling added to the claustrophobic feeling. “It’s just a bit of fun, some light-hearted learning,” she said, refusing to move.
“‘The eternal quest for the truth. Understanding is everything.’” The man quoted the Famulus with a chuckle. “These are fine aims, the true calling of every rational person—”
“Did you want to talk about the ceremony?”
“I thought we were?”
Stella finished her drink and took a refill, glad to have something to do. It wasn’t the best shield she had, but other than boring him to death with mundane details of her children, she couldn’t think of anything else. She had a hunch he wasn’t the type of man to appreciate that conversation. Being honest, she didn’t want to live every waking moment of her life regaling people with tales of her children’s antics, either, no matter how much she loved her little ankle-biters.
They clinked glasses in a mock toast. “Did you ever wonder how they got those big black stones down there?” he asked. “The ones made of witchglass.” He chuckled to himself.
“It’s obsidian.”
He waved his hand dismissively.
“OK, no, I didn’t. Down the stairs, I guess.”
“Too big.”
She ran through a list of possibilities and he ruled each of them out: no back door, not excavated, not reassembled, not part of the original design, not summoned out of the soil by a druid, none of the above.
She was annoyed but curious despite herself. “I don’t know. Enlighten me.”
“First, you tell me something,” he said. “Do you know what this place used to be before the Famulus got her skinny claws into it?”
“A Brahamite Church. Do you always answer your own questions with another question?” Stella was intrigued to see where he was going with this but was fast losing patience. She dealt with enough power games at work to have no energy left for them in her free time.
“And like all good churches, it had a crypt. The dead provide a foundation for the living, their bodies lie beneath us, their souls fly above us, and the living lie to all of us.” His shadowed face crinkled in mock thoughtfulness. “Maybe I should suggest that line to the Famulus. She could add it to her collection of oratory tripe.”
Stella grimaced. More pseudo-philosophy. Everyone was at it down here. Power games combined with a goulash of nonsensical superstitions were brain rot, even in jest. “Death gives life meaning,” she said. “Heard it before—”
“A fear of death gives life meaning,” he said, brushing her wrist with a fingertip.
Stella’s retort died on her lips. She hadn’t planned to come here tonight but had needed to get out of her flat in order to clear her head. It was only when she was walking between the many statues standing guard along the Stone Bridge that she’d realised where her feet were taking her. She didn’t remember packing her cloak, either. And now she was having a conversation which she didn’t know if she wanted or not. She put her glass down. Next to it, black-speckled wax created slow puddles as another candle guttered out.
“This was the antechamber,” he said. “They did their prep here. Though I must say I wouldn’t want to carry a body down those steep stairs to the crypt proper. Cremation is much cleaner, saves space and is more final.” He pressed her glass back into her hands. “They got rid of the corpses when—”
“Don’t you mean they removed the bodies?”
His eyes glittered under the hood. “As you wish; the deceased were rehomed during the First Great Trade Conflict so this place could be used as a bunker. I guess that’s when some of the improvements were made. The priests agreed to it as a temporary necessity and were sold by the idea of the crypt being used as a field hospital. Much more practical a use of space, much less morbid too. Surely, the priority of the priests should have been celebrating the living, not venerating the dead? And then the ban on religion kicked in after the Silk Revolution. That’s when it got interesting.”
He pushed his way through the sweaty crowd to a pair of wing-backed chairs hidden in the corners. The red leather was worn brown in places. Stella followed. Maybe he had something good to say after all. “Many people call the Revolution by a different name,” she said.
“Many people call many things by many names. It doesn’t make them right. Witchglass and obsidian, for example. Or would you rather a more up to date example?”
He didn’t wait for an answer, which made Stella wish he was gargling on sawdust. Then maybe he’d choke on it and that would give her a valid excuse to punch him in the stomach.
“Do you know what the Resistance called the Clock Tower above us during the Revolution?”
“Another question followed by a question. Are you trying to annoy me or is this all a trick to see if I’m in the Resistance? ”
“A bit obvious if it were. This place was deserted for a while, except for those who had the balls to spend a night in a dark church with just the memories of homeless ghosts for company. Then an entrepreneurial young lady turned this place into a bar, and the crypt became the beer cellar. Perfect use for it: no vermin, no neighbours, no sudden temperature changes. The only minor detail was that prohibition was still being enforced with an almost religious zeal.”
Her eyes followed his to the large clock above the exit. The lines around his mouth tightened. Stella double-checked the position of the hands. Surely, a digital display wouldn’t be too much to ask? She did a quick calculation. If she left now, she could be asleep within an hour and up as normal in the morning. If she left now.
He refilled their glasses with the bottle he had carried over with him and nudged one drink towards her. It was the same gesture Stella used when she wanted her kids to drink up. A twist of guilt tightened her stomach. I’m just talking to the guy, she thought, that’s all.
“I think it also had a brief sojourn as a brothel at one point,” he added.
“So this place has been used for alcohol, lies, faith, sex and death. Add a little bit of healing and you’ve covered all the basic human needs.”
“And all the ingredients of an entertaining night out.”
“Death and lies aren’t high on my list of fun things to do,” Stella replied. “I’ve seen too much of the former and heard too many of the latter. My colleagues and I at the hospital say we’r
e all turned and burned — off and out. Not that we have any alternatives. Got to pay the bills. Tough times and...” Stella picked at a fingernail. “Sorry, babbling.”
He didn’t appear to have heard her. “I’m not sure why this place wasn’t torn down long ago, or the Palaces of Democracy above us. Nothing with too colourful a past tends to survive the hammer of reason these days.”
Stella glanced up at the clock again. With a sigh, she placed her glass down. “I have to go.”
“So soon?”
She gestured to the clock.
“I could offer you a lift, save you getting your hair wet?”
“My feet work just fine, thanks.”
“But I will see you again.”
“Was that another question?” The hidden thoughts that had been rattling the ball and chain of work and kids stirred. Stella held out her hand. “Thank you for the history lesson. It was refreshing to learn something new and almost exciting.”
He pulled his hood back. She found herself looking into the odd-coloured eyes of one of the most well-known faces in Ailan, a young man whose rise to power had been meteoric.
“You forgot the ‘dangerous’.” He took her hand. “A word of advice. Knowledge isn’t always power. It can also be a weakness, depending on who knows what you know.”
The cellar hatch clicked shut behind her. A simple sound on a starless night she barely heard.
“Stupid!” she berated herself. “You should have realised it was him earlier.”
Mind still racing, Stella turned her phone on and tapped her swipe in her breast pocket. Such a small thing, but the slip of enhanced plastic functioned as her ID, source of credit and held all her access codes and passwords. She had only mislaid it once and would never do that again, not after the hassle she’d had getting it replaced officially. She could have got a fake card much more easily but hadn’t wanted to take the risk.
She checked the time and did a swift calculation. If she skipped breakfast, she may be able to get an extra half hour in bed. She could stretch it a little with the promise of a treat on the way to school. That should cut short the daily negotiations over what clothes the kids wanted to wear and who did whose teeth.