Pariah

by Donald Hounam

  I pull his hand away and whisper back, ‘What is it?’

  He points round the desk. I creep forward on my hands and knees.

  The line of silver doors along the wall opposite is broken, right at the end, by a black gap, like a missing tooth, where one of the compartments is open. And there’s a dark shape beside it, the size of a human being . . .

  I know at once what it is. I turn to the kid. ‘Come with me.’

  In my old robing room, I drag a linen robe on over my jerkin, get rid of my ring and grab a pile of gear. Paper hat and red silk scarf. Wand, knives, sword. Brazier and charcoal. Herbs and spices.

  The kid helps me carry everything back to the ice room. ‘Can I do it?’ he whispers.

  ‘Just stay behind the desk.’ The brazier is glowing. I’ve tied the silk scarf around my waist and stuck the sword and knives through it. I’m holding the wand between my teeth. I crawl out, pushing the brazier in front of me, the smoke stinging my eyes . . .

  I never thought I’d say this, but it’s a sad sight, the demon.

  The blue and white pyjamas are grimy and torn, with ragged, grey feathers drooping out through the rips. His comb has collapsed and fallen across one side of his head so he can only see out of one eye, which has gone a milky white, with a trail of pus running from the corner.

  He only notices me when the brazier scrapes on the stone floor. I toss in a handful of herbs and as they flare up, I recite, ‘O Lord God Almighty, full of compassion, aid me in this work which I am about to perform.’

  The demon stiffens and turns his head, until he can see me out of his one working eye. He has dragged out the tray where I ditched the dead shark, and has pulled away lumps of meat with his one lobster-like pincer.

  ‘I command thee, O Spirit, by all the names of God: Adonai, El, Elohim, Elohi, Ehyeh, Asher, Zabaoth, Elion, Iah, Tetragrammaton . . .’

  And we’re off. The demon just stands there, chewing steadily. Finally, I get to the real business—

  ‘I do exorcise thee and do powerfully command thee, that thou dost forthwith reveal unto me—’

  Something tugs at my sleeve. I look down and see the kid.

  ‘I thought I told you—’

  ‘Can’t I do it?’

  ‘Do what?’ says the demon, in Kazia’s voice.

  I’ve never been freaked by this trick before: a demon speaking in the voice of his summoner. But there’s a first time for everything . . . I’m working wild: no circle to protect me. And, as my wand rattles on the floor, no instrument to control the demon. He drops the shark on the tray, clamps his pincer round the kid’s head and lifts him clean off the ground.

  I grab the silver disc hanging round my neck. Kiss it. Hold it up—

  ‘Behold thy confusion if thou refusest to obey me! Behold the pentacle of Solomon which I have brought into thy presence! Behold him who is armed by God and without fear—’

  That’s me, OK? Although right now I’m on the floor, fumbling for my wand. The kid’s kicking and screaming while the demon shakes him like a rag doll.

  ‘Prepare to be obedient unto thy master.’ I’m still on the floor, sticking my hat back on my head and thrusting the tip of the wand into the brazier. ‘In the name of the Lord!’

  The demon raises his head and howls. The kid hits the floor with a thud. I kick him in the arse and he scuttles away.

  I pull the wand out of the charcoal and blow out the flame. ‘Look, I’m tired.’ I give the pentacle another peck and hold it up again. ‘Now I’ve got this thing, so will you just stop messing me about and tell me your name?’

  ‘Archasis,’ the demon whimpers.

  ‘Thank you.’ I’ve never heard of him, but if a demon has a name, knowing it helps you control him. And I see no reason not to be polite. ‘So what’s going on?’

  ‘I was hungry.’ He tears off another strip of meat.

  And I think I get it. Kazia conjured Archasis up to nail the Crypt Boy. He failed, and with the kid safe inside Ferdia’s protective circle he’s . . . well, kind of lost. He’s malformed and probably in pain – actually, I’ve never seen a demon look so pathetic and scared. But Kazia’s intention has drawn him to the compartment where the Crypt Boy was originally stored . . . and where, because it was empty, I hid the shark.

  Interesting. But back to work. Because I’ve suddenly had an idea.

  ‘By the pentacle of Solomon have I mastered thee. Now I compel thee by order of the great God, Adonai, Tetragrammaton, Jehovah—’ I’ve got my wand over my head, drawing shapes in the air. ‘Reveal unto me she whom I seek!’

  It’s a plan, see? Archasis may be a catastrophe, but Kazia summoned him, so he still has an affinity with her. He must know where she is. Actually, if you sat him down with a sharp knife and fork and asked what he would most like served up on the plate in front of him, the answer wouldn’t be a dead shark.

  It would be Kazia.

  So if I can get Archasis to take me to her, maybe I can persuade her to take the pariah spell off Sean. Then maybe she’ll be so grateful to me for making her do the right thing, she’ll run off with me. Or something.

  OK, there’s a few holes. I’m not so sure that I want to run off with Kazia any more. In fact I’ve no idea what I’ll do if I find her.

  But a plan’s a plan.

  As I follow Archasis out of the ice room, I hear a whisper from the shadows: ‘Wow! I really wish I was a nekker.’

  At least the mortuary is handy for the Hole. Twenty minutes later, I’ve ditched the robe and the paper hat, and I’m following Archasis past the ruins of Saint Giles’ church and across a sea of rubble. He doesn’t look round: I think he’s got enough trouble staying on his feet and holding up his pyjamas.

  There isn’t much left of the old north gate, but he stops to lean against the pile of crumbling stones anyway. I wait a couple of yards off, sword in one hand, pentacle in the other.

  Five minutes later, Archasis hasn’t moved and I’m passing the time by imagining this conversation with Kazia . . .

  ‘I want you to fix Marvo’s little brother,’ I’ll say.

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Coz it’s the right thing to do.’

  It’s my fantasy, but that doesn’t seem to bother her.

  ‘Have I ever done the right thing so far?’

  ‘Well, no. But I love you.’ Why did I say that?

  ‘Yes, but you’re an arsehole, Frank. And I don’t love you.’

  ‘Marvo, then. You owe it to her.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid, Frank.’

  Back in the real world, Archasis still hasn’t moved, and I consider strolling over and giving him a prod with my sword. I’m cold, the rats around here are more friendly than I like and the shallow ditch where I’m standing . . . let’s just say that there’s more than water in it. I shuffle along a bit and go back to the picture of Kazia in my head . . .

  For some reason I seem to be unbuttoning her blouse. I’m tempted to go with that – very tempted. But Marvo’s standing behind me hissing, ‘Are you out of your bloody mind?’ So I blink and it all goes a bit misty like a scryer, and when it clears Kazia’s buttons are neatly done up and Marvo’s standing next to her and they’ve both got these smug grins on their faces, like they see right through me.

  ‘Go away,’ I mutter, and Marvo’s gone. I take Kazia’s hand. ‘You can fix him, yeah? Her brother.’

  She smiles. ‘Why don’t you unbutton my blouse again . . .?’

  I’m about to do just that, when Archasis pushes himself away from the stonework and lumbers off. I bang my fist off the side of my head and go after him.

  We’re heading through what passes, in the Hole, for a street market: basically, rotting meat and a lot of flies. Nobody minds the sword, and I get a few nods because I come here occasionally when I need a dead animal and it doesn’t have to be too fresh. Up ahead, people scream and scatter from Archasis. One guy considers picking a fight, then takes a closer look and jumps away like he’s been stung.
>
  We head past what’s left of Saint Martin’s church and down the hill to the south gate, where a bunch of students from Christ Church have decided to add some excitement to their lives by putting up a checkpoint. There is, of course, such a thing as too much excitement. When Archasis just crashes through their wooden pole they jump back, out of harm’s way, and I slip through as he disappears round a corner into a big stone building.

  I know it. The old Dominican priory.

  I close the door behind me and stare around the entrance hall. No windows. Stone floor, a couple of chairs, black wooden table with a three-branched candelabrum holding – wait for it! – three candles. There’s a big ugly painting splattered across one wall showing a crowd of idiots with tonsures and black and white robes, waving their hands in the air and looking pleased with themselves.

  Archasis isn’t hanging about now. He’s heading off up the stairs and I’m about to follow when I hear a bang behind me and feel an icy draught on the back of my neck. I spin round.

  The outside door has been thrown open. The big man standing there is wearing a bronze helmet and a black cape over a silver breastplate. The door slams shut behind him. He pulls out a sword.

  But here’s the thing: he doesn’t clank. In fact, he doesn’t make a sound and I realise that this isn’t a Knight of Saint Cyprian, sent to nail me. It’s a search elemental.

  Three days ago, Caxton dragged the Society in, and the Grand Inquisitor added an unauthorised demon to his long list of things he wanted to put a stop to.

  All I had to work with was a feather. The Society had the Crypt Boy – and a whole building full of sorcerers to throw at the problem. Ignacio Gresh got them to instantiate an elemental to find Archasis . . . and nail the sorcerer responsible.

  Any second now, elemental meets demon. I’m not sure what happens, but an almighty bang seems more likely than a gentlemanly handshake. Either way, the elemental’s twin, back at the Society’s headquarters, turns to Gresh and tells him where to look.

  I have to get there first. I dash up to Archasis and try to force the pentacle of Solomon over his head. The chain is too small to fall around his neck; it sticks on his comb. He makes an anxious clucking noise.

  ‘Adonai, Eloim, Ariel, Jehovah! I charge thee to return whence thou camest, without noise or disturbance—’

  As I always say when I dismiss a demon: who’s kidding who? I’ve got my sword over my head. I’m making this up as I go along, but I sweep it down.

  Archasis’s head splits like an egg—

  And dozens of birds come swirling out, screaming and flapping. Black and white feathers. Silver beaks that open like trapdoors and vomit out more and more birds, smaller and smaller, more and more . . . until the hall and stairs are a tornado of spinning feathers.

  The steps have turned to ice. I slip and fall, taking the elemental with me. And when I pick myself up, at the bottom of the stairs, the birds have gone and there’s just me and the elemental, stumbling to his feet.

  He finds his sword and sticks it in its sheath. He picks up his helmet and straightens it on his head. He looks around, utterly confused.

  ‘That way.’ I point.

  But he never gets to the door. He was built to find a demon. That demon has gone. One step, and the elemental is fading. Two, and he’s just a shadow. He never even finishes the third step.

  A moment later I hear the rush of feet. I catch a momentary glimpse of black and white monastic habits before bodies pile on top of me and everything goes dark.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Tumbling

  TIME DRAGS WHEN you’re tied up with a sack over your head, and you can’t see anything and all you can smell is . . . actually, I’m not quite sure what it is, but it’s not fresh. Still, I’ve got other things to worry about, starting with how I’m supposed to breathe through the weave of the sack. Sweat pours down my face and I’m trying desperately to blink hessian dust out of my eyes.

  Actually, I’m thinking that maybe I should just give up on this breathing lark altogether, when I hear a door bang open. Things can only get better.

  I get picked up and bounced around. Just as I’m about to be sick, I get dropped hard on the ground. I can feel the rope being untied from the neck of the sack. Then I get tipped out, arse over end, as they pull the bottom of the sack out from underneath me.

  I’ve never been in this joint before, but it’s a proper Dominican priory, complete with two proper Dominicans, who exit with the sack, locking the door behind them.

  That’s interesting: Vannutelli’s a Dominican . . .

  It’s nearly dark outside, but there’s a couple of candles burning in brackets on the wall. The room looks like some sort of refectory, but the benches and tables where the monks usually stuff their faces have been stacked against the wall, except for two tables in the middle, pushed together and piled up with everything a renegade sorcerer needs: knives, swords, scales, bottles and jars, braziers and candlesticks.

  I smell vulnerary herbs: lavender, comfrey . . . I open a paper sachet and tip out a handful of withered yellow flowers. Agrimony. Also known as church steeples or sticklewort. Effective against diarrhoea and bed-wetting, neither of which are particularly bothering me right now – although that could change. Agrimony also stops wounds bleeding . . . except it’s so mouldy it would infect any wound it got within spitting distance of.

  I’m beginning to realise why I’m still alive. There’s still more magic to be done, and this isn’t the gear to do it with. I sniff suspiciously at a jar of comfrey salve that’s grown a white mould. A pot of myrrh that’s so ancient it’s probably a left-over from the Nativity . . .

  And heavier than I realised. The outside of the pot is all slimy: it slips and lands on my foot. I’m still hopping around the room making noises when the door opens and Kazia steps in.

  I’ll say one thing for her: she comes straight to the point. ‘The boy in the mortuary—’

  ‘The Crypt Boy.’

  ‘They want me to kill him.’

  I smile. ‘No better girl for the job.’

  ‘But I don’t want to.’

  ‘Don’t worry. You couldn’t make a kitten blink with this pile of crap.’ I’ve wondered why Kazia had to sneak into the mortuary to summon the demon to mash the Crypt Boy; and here’s the answer. All the materials scattered across the tables are hopelessly contaminated. Kazia stiffens as I pick up a couple of the knives. It’s the standard set: one with a white wooden handle, the other with a black handle made of sheep’s horn. I knock the blades together and raise my eyes to heaven. ‘Where did you get it all?’

  ‘The prior had it.’

  ‘Wow!’

  The Dominicans used to be down on sorcery – back in 1486 it was a couple of their blokes, Heinrich Krämer and Jacob Sprenger, who wrote the Malleus Maleficarum, ‘The Hammer of Witches’, all about how evil witchcraft and sorcery are. But the story around the Hole is that the only way the priory survived the college wars was by barring the doors and summoning Lucifuge Rofocale and a legion of heavily armed demons. So I guess even the Dominicans have moved with the times.

  It’s not that the knives are wrong. The handles are right; the blades have the correct symbols engraved along them. But they’ve seen better days.

  You do a ritual with knives, a sword and the rest of the gear. Contact with a demon, it’s like it contaminates the instruments. So after you’ve dismissed the Presence, you have to repurify everything and wrap it in silk to keep it that way.

  Time passes. Dust settles. Moths get at the silk. Mice wee over everything . . .

  Then there are all the magical processes that go into an instrument’s creation: forging, tempering, attaching the handle . . . Over time, these decay. An instrument has a half-life of about five years: that is to say, after five years a sorcerer has to work twice as hard to get the same effects from it. After ten years that’s four times. And so on.

  As far as I can see, the crap on the table is only good for
melting down and starting again. I’m still sorting through it, trying to find anything that could actually do something useful, when the door opens and the monks step back in.

  ‘Can you do it?’ One of them has a long, sharp face like a hatchet, and no eyebrows.

  ‘Kill the boy? Sure.’ What else am I going to say?

  ‘Tonight.’ This second monk, he isn’t exactly fat . . . more lumpy, like he’s got pillows stuffed up under his habit.

  I shake my head. ‘The planets are all wrong and the moon’s past full.’

  This is all bollocks, of course. Like I said, if sorcerers still had to wait for planetary alignments and full moons, nothing would ever get done. I’m hoping that the monk doesn’t know that.

  Wrong again. Hatchet Face gestures. Lumpy knocks me over and bounces up and down on me a few times.

  ‘Tonight.’

  I pick myself up. Lumpy looks pleased with himself. Kazia is staring down at her feet.

  ‘I need something that has contiguity with the boy.’

  Another gesture. Another bouncing.

  ‘Now get on with it,’ says Hatchet Face.

  The door closes. I look at Kazia.

  She pulls this strange face. I think it’s meant to be a smile but what I mainly get is fear. ‘We can escape,’ she says.

  As plans go, it’s pretty crap. We’ll get all the ceremonial robes and tie them together to make a sort of rope. We’ll lock the door and start a fire; then, while everybody’s trying to get into the refectory to put it out, we can climb through the window and down to the ground.

  OK, just because a plan’s crap doesn’t mean it won’t work. But why would I be stupid enough to trust her? I’m still puzzling over that when she grabs my hand.

  ‘Frank, I didn’t want it like this.’

  I’m tempted to ask, So why did you do it? Seems like, you know, a reasonable question. But my hand has a life of its own. It’s turned over to close its fingers on hers. I feel the soft warmth of her skin, the beat of her pulse. I may fall over.

  In my head, I’m going over the list of all the reasons why this isn’t a good idea. It’s a long list so I won’t bore you with all of it, just tick off a couple of items: