by D. P. Prior
‘Ah, my dear Lallia.’ Cadman beamed at her. ‘Is Governor Gen busy?’ He plucked a silver case from his breast pocket and flipped a cigarette into his mouth.
Lallia took a step back from the fat man standing amiably before her, thumbs tucked into the pockets of his waistcoat. She glanced up at his puffy moustached face. Enquiring, beady eyes peered over wire-framed spectacles. ‘He’s got a visitor.’
She’d never liked the way Cadman looked at her: it was as if he were forcing himself to maintain eye-contact, but was extremely uncomfortable doing so. There was something sleazy about a man who did that, Lallia reckoned. The old sod was most likely ashamed of what he was thinking; probably imagining what he’d like to do to her. The thought made her sick: all that flab pressing down on her, his slobbering tongue trailing over her neck like a slug, the thick moustache scratching her face and reeking of stale tobacco.
‘Ah, of course! Foolish me. Jarmin the Anchorite of Gladelvi.’ Cadman pressed his thumb to a metallic device and flame sprang up. He touched it to the end of the cigarette and gave three short puffs. ‘How could I forget? Oh well, best pop back later.’ He tapped the rim of his spectacles. Once, twice, three times.
Lallia watched with revulsion as he waddled away, wondering how anyone could get to be so fat. Say one thing for Cadman, though: at least he wasn’t a Nousian. That would be just a bit too much hypocrisy, even for them.
‘Shog! Councillor Arkin.’ Realization hit her like a slap in the face. There would be hell to pay. Taking a deep breath, she lurched into a run, cursing the heat and wondering when the day would be over. All she could think of was a cool beer down at the Mermaid, a stroll by the docks, and someone to share her bed for the night.
THE STATUE OF EINGANA
Cadman waited until Lallia disappeared down the stairs—all thirteen of them—before stepping back into the corridor. He was hunched over, hands wedged beneath his arm-pits, trying to keep out the cold. He knew it couldn’t really be cold—he could see that from the glare of sunlight through the windows, the damp patches on Lallia’s blouse. He’d once hoped Sahul’s climate would give him some respite from his frozen bones, but it had been a vain hope, like so much else. He’d been in the country for so long now he suspected he’d picked up the accent, which would do nothing for his reputation if he ever returned to civilization. He shuddered, not from the cold, but from the memories lodged beneath the surface of his mind, sharp and dangerous, like a wasp caught in a cobweb. Eight hundred and thirty years since his flight from his former master, Otto Blightey, had finally brought him to Sahul, which as far away as it was humanly possible to get.
Eight hundred and thirty. Cadman rolled the numbers around in his mind, permuting them this way and that: 8-3-0, 0-3-8, 3-8-0; adding them, subtracting them; all part of the ritual. 8 plus 3 made 11, which was one more than 10 and 1 less than 12. Nothing bad there. 8 minus 3, though, that was another matter. That made 5, and 5 was never good. Cadman clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and set his cheeks to wobbling. Of course, he’d survived fives before. When you’d lived as long as he had, fives came up all the time; but they never got any easier. Cadman had a sense of foreboding about this one, as he’d had on every other occasion. Year of the Reckoning 908 was going to be a bad one. You could bet your life on it.
Inside the office, Zara Gen and Jarmin the Anchorite talked for hours. Cadman stood outside all the while, occasionally moving away as councillors or their lackeys passed along the fifth floor. Much of what transpired in the room was too muffled to hear properly, but Cadman caught a few snippets of conversation: Jarmin’s claims to longevity, which seemed to exceed even the legends about him; the flourishing of his Nousian community in Gladelvi, now that the Emperor Hagalle had shifted his attention to the building up of his navy and the campaign to rein in the Eastern Lords; and something that awakened in Cadman a great surge of excitement: mention of a relic that had all but passed from the pages of history into myth.
‘The Statue of Eingana?’ Zara Gen’s voice.
A cigarette, a cigarette, a cigarette. Damn. Cadman puffed air through his lips. They’d smell it in the office. He’d just have to wait—something he was rather accomplished at.
Jarmin’s voice rose in response. ‘That’s what the savages call it. A broken statue, nonetheless, but even in parts it has powers that could only come from Nous.’
You’d expect a Nousian to say that, wouldn’t you? Eingana again. First the demon, then the flyer, and now Jarmin. Do I detect a happy coincidence, or the fruit of manipulation?
If someone (or something, judging by the tentacles) was trying to entice him into action after all these years, they were certainly going about it the right way. The prospect of a “clean” immortality was the perfect carrot to dangle in front of him. If there was one thing Cadman couldn’t stand, it was all the skulking around in basements waiting for his blasted ghouls to bring him sustenance. He knew they always tasted the flesh before it reached him, curse their rotting hides. And besides, the siphoning off of life was such a messy business. He screwed his face up. All those fluids, the stench of ordure. It was enough to make you sick—if you were still capable of such a reflex.
So, the Statue of Eingana was the source of Jarmin’s long life. The rumours put it down to sanctity, but Cadman knew there was no such thing. In his experience, longevity was achieved through decidedly unholy acts.
The inklings of an idea started to form in his mind. He waited for a further hour outside the door, but heard no more mention of the artefact. He then made his way down the five flights of stairs (sixty-five steps in all) until he stood in the chill evening air upon Vanyer Street. His black carriage awaited, the driver poised and impassive. Cadman climbed inside, barked his directions and rapped three times on the window. With a crack of the whip the twin black stallions surged forward and the carriage lurched into motion.
Within minutes, Cadman was flicking through manuscripts in his library, looking for the niggling reference to the Statue of Eingana he’d discovered years ago. He knew the artefact featured prominently in the legends of the Dreamers, but they kept no literary records. Somewhere in the library he’d come across a poem or a saga that made mention of the Statue of Eingana and the mysterious powers it was reputed to possess. And then he had it, a narrative history by Elias Wolf he’d read half a century ago. That name again! Knew I’d heard it before. The bard he’d sent Shadrak off to watch perform. Must be getting on a bit. More to the point, though, how did he know so much about Eingana? Patience, Cadman, patience. Just need to trust Shadrak to do his job. Hah! There’s a thought! Trust a Sicarii? Might just as well trust a virus to behave itself and stop being so damned contagious.
Running his eyes over the text, he noted little he didn’t already know, for it was common knowledge the Dreamers believed the Statue of Eingana had once proven the salvation of their people, and had brought about the time of the Reckoning. Elias Wolf, however, either through fabrication or an undisclosed source, had recounted an earlier phase of the statue’s history. Stabbing his finger against the paragraph in question, Cadman rose from his stool and carried the manuscript over to the oil lamp on his desk. There, in the flickering light, he read the words he’d been searching for:
Sektis Gandaw’s soulless reign rid the Dreaming of hope. Eingana fled before the machines in the form of a serpent, but where there is weakness there is betrayal, and she was given over to the lord of the Perfect Peak by those sworn to protect her.
Bending his implacable will to the mysteries he now held within his hand, the Technocrat sought to scry the very essence of Eingana so that he might harness her powers of life and death. At last he succeeded, and in so doing turned her to stone; a goddess, one of the Aeonic Triad, trapped within a statue.
How was it, young shaman, this mighty Statue of Eingana passed to you for the blighting of the Earth and the ending of the Ancients’ civilisation? Was it fear that broke it and cast its pieces far and wide to pour the
ir life-giving gifts upon their happy guardians?
Was Jarmin a guardian? It would explain a great deal. Like how he was able to travel all the way from Gladelvi to Sarum without running afoul of Imperial troops, never mind the Sicarii. Everyone knew that Hagalle employed the assassins to prevent the spread of Nousians beyond the community Jarmin had built up in the north. Nevertheless, Sarum’s Templum of the Knot had miraculously escaped persecution. Indeed, Cadman had heard rumours that Zara Gen had forbidden it. The only other community he could think of was the Abbey of Pardes, which had been there since before the Reckoning. Elsewhere in Sahul, Nousian communities had been brutally suppressed, which was no bad thing as far as Cadman was concerned.
His mind was a whir of numbers—page numbers, dates, the number of his breaths. This was too much of a coincidence, and he didn’t like coincidences: there was devilry in them. The ice in his bones crawled at the thought of the demon that had invaded his dreams. He wasn’t sure if he was more frightened of its threats or its promises. Curse your stupid curiosity, Ernst, it’ll be the death of you. He felt like a fish swimming into a very wide net.
There was some intrigue afoot that Cadman didn’t understand. Why would an experienced and calculating statesman of the stature of Zara Gen invite a well-known holy man to Sarum at the risk of angering Hagalle? Zara Gen was up to something. Was he in league with Jarmin and his Templum master? Were they planning an uprising? Cadman doubted it. Aeterna had no interest in distant Sahul, whatever the paranoid Emperor might have thought. The man was an imbecile. Always seeing threats from afar and failing to notice the ones closer to home.
Cadman told himself to ignore what he’d heard. It was always better not to get involved. He already regretted sending Shadrak to the performance. No matter what he might learn, nothing good could come of it. Cadman had only survived all these centuries due to his old friends, anonymity and caution. Damn that demon for planting the seeds of hope in him. “Those who hope find but despair.” Who was that? La Roche? Can’t be, too cynical. Must have been Blightey. And yet he couldn’t quite suppress the nagging voice that told him he might just be lucky. What if there was a chance of finding the Statue of Eingana, a chance for immortality without parasitism? He hated what he was, hated what he had to do to endure. But he feared oblivion that much more.
THE GIG
Barek Thomas perched on a bench alongside his brother knights from the White Order. The pub was jammed full of strangers from Sarum and the regulars from Oakendale and Broken Bridge. Gaston, the new head, had refused to come, claiming Elias Wolf was at best a heretic and at worst a pagan. Weren’t the real reason he didn’t come, Barek reckoned, but he’d never say it to his face. Real reason was Gaston’s dad was killed last night, right here in this very room. The thought sent shivers up and down Barek’s spine. He took a slurp from his glass, more froth than beer. Best not to think about it.
After the hard yakka of sword practice over at Shader’s barn, Barek had needed to hit the turps down at the Griffin. Most of the Order had gone back to the makeshift quarters Shader had erected on the grounds of the Old Mint four years ago, shortly after his battle with the mawgs.
The flickering oil lamps, the glow of the open fire, the smell of pipe-smoke and beer added to the mood as the bard sang his epic to the accompaniment of an old six string guitar. Barek couldn’t think of a better place for the story of the Reckoning. Couldn’t think of a better place to spend the evening either, despite what’d happened last night. The Griffin had always been a second home to him. Its jarra wood floors, rough hewn tables, and long bar carved out of the trunk of a colossal karri tree had soaked up their fair share of his tears and laughter, vomit, and even blood over the years. Probably a ton more of everyone else’s, too, in the eight centuries or so it had been standing. Damn sight more of poor ol’ Bovis Rayn’s, that’s for sure.
Barek’s eyes were drawn to a flash of colour out of place. Someone had thrown a rug over a patch of floor by the hearth. Probably hadn’t had time to get the stain up. On the mantelpiece, the framed Charter of the Sahulian League had a hole in the glass, fracture lines making a jagged jigsaw. Hard to believe the founding fathers had forged their alliances here more than three hundred years ago. The spear of Ishgar, the first Sahulian Emperor, had been propped in a corner, its haft speckled with red. The wall where it had hung was still discoloured, but at least it now looked like damp rather than blood. Ishgar was probably turning in his grave. He’d celebrated his victory over the Eastern Lords here at the Griffin, back when the port city of Sarum was still the capital of Western Sahul. And it was here, just last night, that Bovis had met his messy end at the hands of Shadrak the Unseen. No doubt about it, folk were saying. Hole in the centre of his forehead gave it away. One straight through the glass of the Charter did, too. All just ‘cause he was a preacher.
Made Barek nervous to be a Nousian; kind of wished he hadn’t converted, but that had been the deal when they joined the White Order. Hardly seemed worth the risk now Shader had gone. The village council was already making noises about a bunch of Nousian knights running amok in the villages, and Sheriff Halligan had poked his head in a couple of times. Poor bastard didn’t look like he had a clue what to do about it, either. You’d have thought it was the knights the Sicarii would have come for, not a pacifist like Bovis. Barek couldn’t believe he was gone; none of the lads could. He might have preached against the Order, told them they were on a sure path to the Abyss, but Barek had known him all his life. He’d practically lived at the Rayns’ place when he and Gaston had been joined at the hip. Even that had changed with all the Nousian stuff. The moment Bovis had fallen under the sway of Soror Agna from Sarum he’d been a different man. Barek’s dad no longer wanted anything more to do with him, even warned him something like this would happen; and he hadn’t been alone in that. Pretty much everyone thought he was a loony, or a do-gooding pain in the arse. How would they feel now he was dead?
Gaston said he didn’t care, said there was no love lost between him and his dad, but Barek knew him better than that. Least he hoped he did.
Barek looked away, tried to focus on the performance. Were it not for the spellbinding awe of his music, the straggly haired bard would have cut a ridiculous figure in his patchwork trousers and rabbit-skin coat. Most of the onlookers appeared too rapt, or too pissed, to notice. As for Elias, he appeared totally consumed in his song, lost in the story of history’s passage to the present.
Barek felt drawn to the bard’s fingers, plucking away at the strings. The words swirled around him like the cries of distant birds spiralling on the thermals. He swooned and felt the room pitch. His pint forgotten, Barek was helpless before the wave of images and sounds that washed over him. The Griffin gave way to an ocean of red dust, as he began to see through the eyes of Elias’s protagonist, the mythical Dreamer shaman who had instigated the fall of the Ancients.
***
The Homestead burst from the desert like a blister, an island mountain bathed in the blood of the fleeing sun. It was during the red light at the close of the day that Adoni always heard the whispering and saw movement in the Dreaming. He’d been told that he writhed like a snake and foamed at the mouth during the visions. Jirra said that he pissed himself and he’d made sure that Ekala knew. That’s why she was no longer his one-day-mate; why she no longer held his hand.
‘You ready, boy?’ the Wapar Man picked between his teeth with a curling thumbnail. His black skin was streaked with white, like the bleached bones of the dead who’d been taken by the bush. Crystals glinted from ropey hair and bones pierced his lips.
Adoni turned to look at the Barraiya People spread out behind, a hundred eyes staring his spirit down. The children stood at the front, parents’ hands on their shoulders. He caught Jirra smirking but the others may as well have worn masks. Ekala’s eyes shone brighter than the rest, but there was no expression on her face, not even repulsion. Looking up at the Wapar Man, he nodded.
The Wapar Man
jabbed a long finger at a man in the crowd, weaved it through the air and pointed at another. The two men stepped forward, sweat streaking through the dust on their skin. The Wapar Man studied them and made little growling noises deep in his throat. He shook his gourd rattle and the men took hold of Adoni by the shoulders, spears upright in their free hands.
‘Don’t look back,’ the Wapar Man called as they walked him towards a fissure in the sandstone. ‘All is Dreaming now. Listen for the gods. Maybe they take you.’
They hadn’t taken the last boy. Adoni remembered the Wapar Man leaning into the opening then pulling back, covering his nose and mouth. That’s what always happened, Adoni’s father told him. The last person the gods had taken was the Wapar Man himself, and no one could remember when that was.
Something stabbed at the back of his neck. He thought it might be a fingernail.
‘See through the dark.’ The Wapar Man’s breath was on his cheek. ‘You come to the core of the Dreaming.’
The maggot-ridden heart of Eingana. Adoni nodded and drew in a deep breath.
The Wapar Man leaned across him to draw a line in the sand with his staff. ‘You cross back over this line without the blessing of the gods and…’ The Wapar Man made a sharp clicking noise. ‘…the sinew will snap. Understand?’
‘I will fall from Eingana?’
‘You will die.’
He felt the Wapar Man withdraw. The hands holding him were hot and slick, stiff with anticipation. The men on either side tensed and then threw him forward into the opening.
***
Shadrak winced and pulled the stiletto out of his thigh, wiping the blood on his cloak before sheathing it. Pain seemed to do the trick, though. Cut through the fug. Frickin’ bard was still thumbing an alternating bass like a heartbeat, fingers picking a beguiling melody. Sang low and sonorous, voice carrying effortlessly to every corner of the bar. More sorcery, no doubt. Shadrak stroked the weapons in his baldrics. Shogger’s rabbit-skin coat was thick enough to offer some protection against a blade or club, but the neck was too exposed. Best options would be either a head-shot or a razor star to the jugular. If killing had been his mission.