The City Stained Red

by Sam Sykes

  “He does, Captain. I am taking him to them.”

  How a man could sound so unimpressed by death, Dransun suspected he would never know. Maybe Gevrauchians became inured to it over time. Or maybe they were just born that way and that’s how they were chosen to serve the Bookkeeper.

  Or maybe this was the only job these particular freaks could get.

  Still, as freaks went, Dransun was fond enough of this one to follow him into the alley, carefully checking for anyone who might be following.

  “It’s not safe to be out here, priest,” Dransun said. “The foreigners are at each other’s throats. Thieves and looters are picking at the corpses they leave behind. I sent a couple boys to Shicttown to make sure everything was in order and I haven’t heard back from them. If the oids start—”

  “It was never safe, Captain,” the Quill interrupted. “It is merely less safe now. There have always been thieves, foreigners, and shicts. There always will be.”

  They emerged from the other side of the alley and into a small square of shops. Their windows had been shattered and lay upon the cobblestones like leaves fallen from trees. Crossbow bolts kissed the wooden walls, reached out with broken hafts and heads. Smoke crept in shyly over the roofs to settle as gray eaves over the square.

  Like a meadow, Dransun thought. Or at least, what he thought meadows looked like from the poems he had read; he had never gone far enough outside the city to see one. The square had been devastated, but there was a certain tranquility in the wake of destruction. There was nothing more to destroy.

  It was almost peaceful.

  And if he were really drunk, he might have been able to pretend that those bodies stacked around the corpsewagon at the center were just sleeping.

  The Quill let the dead man fall amidst the others: a woman, a young girl, a younger boy. The Gevrauchian took a moment to raise his burlap mask long enough to mop sweat from his throat before leaning down and attempting to drag one of the bodies into his wagon.

  “What happened to the Lanterns?” Dransun asked.

  “They have fled,” the Quill replied between grunts. “We discussed it at length last night. I urged them to do so.”

  “What? Why would you do that?”

  “It was the will of Gevrauch.”

  The Quill gasped as he finally pushed the dead man into the corpsewagon. After pausing a moment to catch his breath, he attempted to throw the wife in after him.

  “Horseshit,” Dransun spat. “I don’t know much about the Bookkeeper, but he wouldn’t will his followers to abandon a city in need.”

  “That was not His will, no,” the Quill grunted. The woman’s dead weight, after loading her husband, seemed too much for his skinny arms.

  “Then what was it?”

  The Quill muttered as the corpse slipped from his grasp and pooled in a pile of limbs and lolling head at the wheels of the corpsewagon. The Gevrauchian fixed his glassy stare upon Dransun.

  “Gods do not merely decide to will one thing or another, Captain,” he said. “They simply will. One does not choose to disobey it at their leisure, regardless of soldiers or swords. Gevrauch’s will is that we fulfill our promise to Him until we, too, are put into the books.” He leaned down and took the corpse by the wrists. “One obeys the will or one does not. Those that did not are no longer His concern.”

  The Quill began to pull at the corpse’s wrists again. He strained as he tried to haul the body up to the lip of the wagon. With a sigh, Dransun stepped forward, took the ankles, and helped him roll it up and over. He peered into the corpsewagon and cringed at the sight of flesh before him.

  “How many have you found?” he asked.

  “Many,” the Quill replied.

  “How many will you take?”

  “As many as He will.”

  Dransun sighed and pulled his flask free from his boot. “Need some help?”

  The Quill regarded him through the glass circles of his mask. “Are you offering whiskey or labor, Captain?”

  Dransun uncorked the flask, took a long sip, and wiped his mouth with his sleeve before offering it to the Quill. “Yes.”

  The Gevrauchian accepted the flask and peeled his mask up to take a swig. The liquor dribbled down his chin and spattered upon the cheek of the dead boy at his feet. Dransun winced and knelt down to clean it from the pallid flesh.

  “Gevrauch will not turn them away, Captain,” the Quill said, replacing his mask. “This is unnecessary.”

  “Night like tonight, everything’s necessary,” Dransun muttered. Something moved at the corner of his eye. He was on his feet, sword in his hand and leveled at the mouth of the alley. “This isn’t the meat you’re looking for, vulture. Room in the wagon if you’re looking for blood.”

  “Easy, friend.” The man came out of the shadows slowly and steadily, hands held before him and smile on his face. His northern face. “I’ve seen all the blood I can handle for one night; I’m just looking for a way to avoid adding my own to it.”

  “Good luck with that, shkainai,” Dransun muttered. “Your kinsmen were fighting in every district, last I checked.” He squinted. “I’ve seen you here before.”

  “You have not,” the man replied smoothly. “And they’re not my kinsmen. I’m from Muraska.”

  Dransun could believe that. The man had that stubble-cheeked, hungry-looking alcoholic look that the northerners shared. He snorted and slowly lowered his blade.

  “You can try Temple Row,” the captain muttered. “The Talanites might be taking refugees. Wouldn’t bother with the Ancaarans. Locked up tight after tonight’s shitshow.”

  “As you say. I’ll be sure to—”

  “If I were you, though, I’d run for the gate. Or a ship, if they haven’t all left by now. Once the foreigners drink their fill of each other’s blood, they’ll be ripping this city apart for the assassin.” Dransun eyed the man carefully. “He was northern, too.”

  “Not every pale face is a northerner,” the man said with a sneer.

  “Maybe. But this one was. Had a head full of hair like an old man, they say.” He glanced at the northerner’s dirty locks. “You might not, but if they don’t find him…” He sniffed. “They might not care what pale face they find.”

  Dransun squinted through the smoke. Something about this northerner was hard to make out, and Dransun had seen enough thieves and liars to know when it was by design. There was hair where there shouldn’t be, dirt where flesh was used to being freshly scrubbed, and the eyes were more sunken, but…

  “I know I’ve seen you before,” Dransun said, raising his sword once again.

  The man backed away for the first two steps, turned, and broke out into a sprint for the rest. Dransun moved to give chase but stumbled over something. He glanced down. The dead girl’s glassy eyes looked up at him, her head lolling right next to his boot.

  There was a bloodstain on the toe, he noted.

  He’d have to polish them after he was done here.

  “All right,” Dransun sighed, leaning down to take her arms. “Lift with your knees, priest.”

  Now, admittedly, that hadn’t looked like the action of a man with nothing to hide. Men with nothing to hide didn’t go running away when a guard started asking questions. And men with something to hide, the ones who were good at it, anyway, didn’t run for ten city blocks before stopping to catch their breath beside a shady-looking building with shattered windows.

  He looked up at the sign overhead. Barely legible through the soot, the image of two rodents copulating atop a beer keg marked The Rutting Rat swung squeaky on its hinges. This place hadn’t even been respectable before it was looted.

  Desperate circumstances, he told himself. Desperate men adhere to desperate logic in desperate circumstances.

  He looked at the night sky. The feathery wings of a flock of scraws flapped in the darkness, painted orange by the illumination of rising flames. Their riders haphazardly hurled fireflasks over the sides, clearly too far up to hear the ago
ny of those being burned alive below.

  Denaos, however, was close enough to hear them just fine.

  The scraws shrieked, wheeling overhead and flying in his direction. He wasted no time in crawling through the broken window, careful to avoid the shards of glass. He stepped lightly over the smashed barrels and broken chairs, and very lightly over the dead body at the foot of the stairs.

  The inn’s second upper looked no better. The banister had been broken and a dead Sainite lay sprawled in the hallway. Perhaps he had been sleeping here and the Karnerians drinking downstairs when the fighting had broken out. The looters had come afterward, tossing the rooms whose doors now lay open.

  And to think it’s only been three hours since the Meat Market incident, he thought. Say what you want about their cooking, but don’t disparage the Djaalic’s efficiency when it comes to rioting. Ha. That’s funny. Laugh.

  He crept to the end of the hall.

  You’re not laughing.

  He knocked lightly on the one door that was shut tight.

  Wasn’t that funny, anyway, I guess.

  “Who is it?” a muffled voice demanded from the other side.

  “Me,” Denaos replied.

  “What’s the password?”

  “I’m not saying it. You knew I was coming back and you can hear my voice. It’s me, Gods damn it; now let me in.”

  No reply came from the door. He sighed, rested his head against it.

  “Flowers in springtime,” he said. “Pretty, pretty motherfucking posies.”

  There was the sound of several large and heavy things shoved aside from the door. It creaked open just enough for Asper to peer out at him, then just enough to let him see her glare.

  “The swearing was unnecessary,” she said.

  “So was the password.” He shoved his way in and slammed the door shut behind him. Asper was already shoving furniture in front of it.

  “Were you followed?” she grunted, struggling with a heavy dresser.

  “Saw a few patrols,” Denaos replied as he moved to help her. “The Karnerians and Sainites only have eyes for each other, though, and this place was already hit before we got here. They won’t be back.”

  “How can you be sure?” she asked. “We were there, Denaos; Gariath, Lenk, and I. And the three of us running through the streets aren’t exactly inconspicuous.”

  “Which is why you were lucky I found you when I did,” he replied as the dresser slid into place. “I know this city. I know its streets. And I wound us through enough of them that a Gods-damned jackal—quadrupedal or otherwise—couldn’t track us.”

  He turned and had gotten two steps before he saw Kataria. The shict perched upon the windowsill, idly chewing a strip of dried meat. She raised a hand in greeting and spoke through a full mouth.

  “Hey.”

  “When the hell did you get here?” he demanded.

  She shrugged. “Little after you left, I think?”

  “How’d you find this place?”

  “You’re not that hard to track.”

  “And just where the hell have you been this whole time?”

  She stopped chewing. Her eyes grew hard as she swallowed. “Somewhere else.”

  “Where—”

  “I’m here now, aren’t I?” she snarled. She bit off another mouthful of meat and cast a glare to the corner of the room. “I know I shouldn’t be surprised that things turned out like this in my absence. Still…”

  Lenk met her scowl with one of his own. Or at least, it started as a glare before turning to a wince as he touched the bandages around his midriff. Whatever he might have said became a groan as he hauled himself to his feet and reached for his tunic.

  “How’s it look out there?” he asked.

  “A little better than in here,” Denaos said. “The Karnerians and Sainites are fighting in every district. Looters are roving in their wake; petty thieves and lesser gangs are using the battle as a cover to settle old scores.” He clicked his tongue. “Wait here and I’ll go see if I can find an artist to paint you a picture. I think I saw one writing on the wall in feces as I came in here.”

  “That’s hilarious.” Lenk pulled his shirt over his head. “You’re hilarious. I swear as soon as I think it won’t open my wound again that I’ll start laughing.” He fixed a sneer upon the tall man. “Once more, except without the bit where you’re an asshole.”

  “What the hell do you want me to tell you, Lenk?” Denaos threw up his hands. “It’s a fucking war out there and everyone knows you started it.”

  Lenk’s face fell, leaving something white and shocked behind. “Everyone?”

  “The Jhouche know, Lenk. In Cier’Djaal, the guards are the last to know anything.”

  Lenk’s eyes turned to the floor, legs following as he collapsed back against the wall. He buried his head in his hands. His breath came out in a thin, airy sigh. The desperation in his eyes shifted to disbelief, as though he wished he could tear himself out of this reality as easily as he tore the hair out of his scalp.

  “How?” he asked the floor. “How did this happen?” Upon receiving no answer, he looked up at the faces around him. “How the fuck did this happen?”

  Well, it’s really quite simple. See, the principle of distraction works as thus: when you are losing a fight and losing it badly—as my dear friends in the Jackals were—it often makes sense to point somewhere else and scream “Look over there!” and hope that your enemies—in this case, the Khovura—look and are suitably distracted by whatever you happen to point at—a massive war tearing the city apart, as it were—while you turn tail and run.

  All reasonable logic, Denaos thought.

  That wouldn’t concern you, of course. But I imagine “wrong place, wrong time” wouldn’t be of any better consolation.

  But reasonable logic was for honest men, not desperate men. Desperate men stood quietly, said nothing, and tried to ignore the teary desperation of their good friends.

  That sounded no less reasonable to him.

  “Are you really so stupid as to be surprised?”

  Denaos thought he could be forgiven for not noticing Gariath squatting and hunched in the corner. Among all the devastation he had seen today, a seven-foot hulk of scarred meat and anger just sort of blended in. Yet as the dragonman rose up and stalked forward, he demanded attention.

  “How long have we known each other now?” Gariath rumbled. “How long have I been proving myself right? How much longer are you going to keep from listening to me?”

  Desperation faded from Lenk’s face, replaced by irritation as he glared upward. “For all that I’ve listened to you, all I know is that you choose the absolute worst times to gloat. Did you have a point?”

  “Look around you.” Gariath swept his arms about the room. “Look out the window. This city is diseased. It eats itself alive. I could smell it; I told you, but you didn’t listen. This happened because you were too stupid not to walk away from it.”

  “So that’s it? Humans are just doomed? I was going to end up like this, anyway, just because I wanted stop killing?” Lenk rose to meet the dragonman, stared up into his black eyes. “Is that the only reason you hang around? To gloat when everything goes wrong?”

  “No.” Gariath said nothing more than that and his posture challenged Lenk to ask.

  “This isn’t helping.” Asper shoved her way between the two. “Neither is staying holed up here. We need to do something.”

  “To do that, we need to get through the streets,” Denaos replied. “A boy who could spit lightning and shit fire would be extremely handy for that.”

  Asper shot him a scowl. “Dreadaeleon isn’t here. We’ll think of something else.”

  “There is a way,” Lenk said. “I know someone who can help.” He looked to Denaos. “Can you get us to Silktown?”

  “Won’t be easy,” Denaos replied. “They’ve probably got their guards patrolling, keeping the rabble out. Maybe a few dragonmen to keep the foreigners out, as well.” He
shrugged. “But… there are ways.”

  “I’m not leaving,” Asper interjected. “I can’t. Not when we’re responsible for this.”

  “We aren’t,” Lenk snapped.

  “No.” She turned her scowl on him. “Not all of us.”

  “Fine, then!” He threw his hands up. “I’ll get out. Do whatever the hell you want; I can’t be here with an entire city hunting me.”

  She sighed, rubbing her eyes. “Agreed. But where do you think you can go?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know.” He leaned against the wall, looking very heavy. “Maybe I can find another town somewhere. Start over.” He sniffed. “Again.”

  “With more people?” Gariath growled. “More humans?”

  “Where else would I go?”

  The dragonman stared at him as though this were substantially more stupid than usual. “Anywhere. Anywhere in this world, you could go. Any town, any city, any country infested by your breed.” He tapped two claws to his chest. “Where do I go?”

  “Gariath…” Asper placed a hand on the dragonman’s shoulder and withdrew it as soon as he scowled at her.

  “I’ve shed my blood protecting your worthless, weak body.” Gariath turned his glare back to Lenk. “I’ve broken bones to keep you from dying. Every time you sat and gorged yourself on pity, I was out fighting, bleeding, killing.” He jabbed Lenk hard in the chest with a single claw, pressing him against the wall. “Now that it’s all done, you want to go somewhere else? Where do I go?”

  “I don’t know,” Lenk replied.

  “What was all that blood for? Why did I spill it?”

  “Because you wanted to and it was useful.”

  “Useful? Is that what I am?” Gariath stepped closer to Lenk, shoving Asper aside. He looked down his snout at the young man and spoke through clenched fangs. “What am I to you?”

  Lenk made no answer and moved to step past the dragonman. A red arm caught him by the shoulder and shoved him against the wall.

  “Say it,” Gariath snarled.

  “No,” Lenk spat, two hands needed to shove off Gariath’s one.

  “Say it. Say that word.”

  “No.”