The Charnel Prince

by Greg Keyes

  “I wish I could believe that,” Anne said. “But the news came by the Church cuveiturs. And know that it’s true. I can feel it.” She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. “It happened the same night they tried to kill us, you know. The night of that purple moon, when the knights burned the coven. I was meant to die with them.”

  “Your mother lives yet, and your brother Charles.”

  “But my father is dead. And Fastia, Elseny, Uncle Robert, all dead, and Lesbeth is missing. It’s too much, Austra. And all the sisters of the coven Saint Cer, killed because they stood between me and—” She shuddered back off into sobs.

  “Then what shall we do?” Austra said after a time.

  Anne closed her eyes and tried to sort through the phantoms that whirled behind her lids. “We have to go home, of course,” she said at last. It sounded like a weary stranger talking. “Everything she said . . .” She stopped.

  “Who?” Austra asked. “Who said? What’s this, Anne.”

  “Nothing. A dream I had, that’s all.”

  “A dream?”

  “It’s nothing. I don’t want to talk about it.” She tried to smooth her cotton dress. “I don’t want to talk about anything for a while.”

  “Let’s at least go someplace more private. A chapel, perhaps. It’s almost three bells.”

  The city was already waking up around them from its daily siesta. Traffic along the riverside was picking up as people returned from naps and long lunches to their shops and work, and the illusion of solitude was wiped away.

  The Pontro dachi Pelmotori spanned the Za a few tens of perechi to their right. Quiet a few moments before, it was already humming with activity. Like several of the bridges in z’Espino, it was really more like a building, with shops of two and three stories lining both sides, so they couldn’t actually see the people walking on the span. All that was visible was the red-stuccoed outer facade with its dark mouths of windows. The bridge belonged to the butcher’s guild, and Anne could hear their saws cutting, their boys haggling prices. A bucket of something bloody flew out one of the windows and splashed into the river, narrowly missing a man in a boat. He began shouting up at the bridge, waving his fist.

  When another bucket of the same stuff came even closer, he seemed to think better of it and returned to earnestly rowing.

  Anne was about to agree with Austra when a shadow fell across them. She looked up and saw a man, dark of complexion—like most Vitellians—and rather tall. His green doublet was faded and a little threadbare. He wore one red stocking and one black. His hand rested on the pommel of a rapier.

  “Dena dicolla, casnaras,” he said, with a little bow. “What makes such beautiful faces so long and sorrowful?”

  “I do not know you, casnar,” Anne replied. “But good day to you and the saints bless you.”

  She looked away, but he did not take the hint. Instead, he stood there, smiling.

  Anne sighed. “Come,” she said, plucking at Austra’s dress. The two of them rose.

  “I mean you no harm, casnaras,” the man said hastily. “It’s just that it is so unusual to see hair of copper and gold here in the south, to hear such charming northern accents. When such treasures of the eye present themselves, it behooves a man to offer whatever services he may.”

  A small chill ran up Anne’s spine. In her grief, she had forgotten to keep her head covered, and so had Austra.

  “That’s very kind of you,” she said quickly, “But my sister and I were just returning home.”

  “Let me escort you, then.”

  Anne let her gaze travel around. Though the streets above were now beginning to bustle, this part of the terrace was something like a park, and it was still relatively quiet. To reach the street, she and Austra had to travel some ten yards and climb a dozen stone stairs. The man stood between them and the nearest stair. Worse, another fellow sat on the stairs themselves, taking a more than casual interest in the conversation.

  There were probably others she didn’t see at all.

  She stood straighter. “Will you let us pass, casnar?”

  He looked surprised. “Why shouldn’t I let you pass? I told you, I mean no harm.”

  “Very well.” She started forward, but he backed away.

  “Somehow we’ve started off on an ill footing,” he said. “My name is Erieso dachi Sallatotti. Won’t you tell me yours?”

  Anne didn’t answer, but kept walking.

  “Or perhaps I should guess?” Erieso said. “Perhaps one of the birds will tell me your names?”

  Anne was now certain she heard someone behind them, as well. Rather than panicking, she felt a swift anger take her grief for wings and rise high. Who was this man, to bother her on this day, to interrupt her mourning?

  “You are a liar, Erieso dachi Sallatotti,” she said. “You most certainly mean me harm.”

  The humor vanished from Erieso’s face. “I mean only to collect my reward,” he said. “I do not see what anyone would want with such a pale and disagreeable catella, but there is silver to be had. So come, will you walk or be dragged?”

  “I will call out,” Anne replied. “There are people all around.”

  “That might deprive me of my reward,” Erieso said, “but it will not save you. Many in the streetguard seek you, as well, and they might well use you before claiming their silver. That I will not do, I swear by Lord Mamres.” He proffered his hand. “Come. Take it. It is the easiest way for you, and for me.”

  “Is that so?” Anne said, feeling her anger blacken. But she reached for his hand. As their fingers touched, she felt his pulse, the wet flow of his insides.

  “Cer curse you,” she said. “Worms take you.”

  Erieso’s eyes widened. “Ah!” he croaked. “Ah, no!” He clutched at his chest and sank down to one knee, as if bowing. He vomited.

  “Be glad you did not meet me by the light of the moon, Erieso,” she said. “Be gladder still that you did not meet me in the dark of it.” And with that she stepped past him. The man on the steps stood and stared at her wide-eyed. He said nothing, and he didn’t bar their way as they went up to the street.

  “What did you do?” Austra asked breathlessly as they slipped into the crowd on the Vio Caistur.

  “I don’t know,” Anne replied.

  By the time they reached the stairs, almost all her anger and courage had burned out of her, leaving only fear and confusion.

  “It was like that night at the coven, when the men came,” Anne said.

  “When you blinded the knight.”

  “Something in me—it frightens me, Austra. How can I do these things?”

  “It frightens me, too,” Austra agreed. “Do you think you killed him?”

  “No, I think he will recover. We must hurry.”

  They turned from the Vio Caistur into a narrow avenue, hurrying past stocking shops and a tavern that smelled of grilled sardines, through the Piata da Fufiono with its alabaster fountain of the goat-legged saint and on until the streets grew smaller and more tangled until at last they reached the Perto Veto. The women were already out on their balconies, and several groups of men sat drinking on the stoops, just as they had been the day before.

  “They’re still following us, I think,” Austra said, glancing behind.

  Anne looked, too, and saw a group of men—five or six of them—rounding the corner.

  “Run,” Anne said. “It’s not far.”

  “I hope Cazio is there,” Austra said.

  “Figs for Cazio,” Anne muttered.

  The girls started running. They had gone only a few yards when Erieso stepped from a side street, pale but angry, another man by his side.

  Erieso drew his rapier, a narrow, wicked length of steel. “Sorcel this, witch,” he snarled. “I’ve word that they’ll pay every bit as much for you dead, and my goodwill is all worn away.”

  “What a big prickler for such little girls,” a woman taunted down from her balcony. “It’s good to see that real men ha
ve come to our street.”

  “Rediana!” Anne called up, recognizing the woman. “They mean to kill us!”

  “Oh, the duchess likes me now, does she?” Rediana called down. “Not like at the fish market yesterday, eh?”

  Erieso snorted. “You’ll get no help here, cara,” he said.

  An instant after he said it, an earthen crock full of something odious struck his companion squarely in the skull. The fellow dropped, squealing and pressing his head with his hands. Erieso yelped and began to dodge as he was pelted with rotten fruit and fish bones from more than one window.

  His other men had arrived now, though, and they spread out to encircle the girls. They were forced to the middle of the street, where heavy objects couldn’t be thrown.

  All the women on the street were shouting now.

  “I’ll wager he’s got a limpet in his breeches,” one shouted. “Or a wet little snail, all curled for fear in its shell.”

  “Go back to Northside, where you belong!”

  But Erieso, safely out of range of anything dangerous, had ceased paying attention to the ladies of the neighborhood. He advanced on Anne and Austra once more.

  “You can’t kill us, not in front of all these people,” she said.

  “There are no people in the Perto Veto,” he said. “Only vermin. Even if someone here bothered to tell the tale, no one would listen.”

  “A pity,” a new voice said. “For this tale shall have an interesting ending.”

  “Cazio!” Austra cried.

  Anne didn’t look—she could not take her gaze from the tip of Erieso’s sword, and she knew Cazio’s voice well enough by now.

  “And who in the name of Lord Ondro are you?” Erieso asked.

  “Why, I’m Cazio Pachiomadio da Chiovattio, and I’m the protector of these two casnaras,” he said. “And this is turning out to be a fine day, for I have someone to protect them from. I only wish you were not so clearly cowards—it cheapens my joy. But, no matter.”

  Anne heard steel snick free of leather.

  “Caspator,” Cazio said, speaking to his sword, “let’s us to work.”

  “There’s six of us, you fool,” Erieso said.

  Anne heard a quick motion behind her, a gasp, a gurgle.

  “You count poorly,” Cazio said. “I make only five. Anne, Austra, come back. Quickly.”

  Anne did as he instructed, nearly brushing Cazio as he slid past her, his sword held out in a level guard.

  “Stay behind me,” he said.

  Now the women were cheering. The fellow Cazio had already run through was dragging himself pitifully off the street as the swordsman engaged Erieso and the rest of his men. Anne wasn’t fooled by Cazio’s bravado, though—five were too many, even for him. As soon as they surrounded him . . .

  But he showed little concern, fighting languidly, almost as if he were bored. He danced in, out, around, and for a moment actually had his opponents standing in a clump, all defending themselves at the same time.

  But then their advantage sank in, and they began to flank him. Cazio parried one attack and did a strange sort of twist, binding up his opponent’s blade and forcing the point out to the side, where it pricked another of Erieso’s men. At the same time, Cazio’s point drove hard into his original target’s shoulder. Both men cried out and backed away, but neither seemed mortally injured.

  “Za uno-en-dor,” Cazio told them, “my own invention. I—”

  He broke off to parry a furious attack by Erieso, then quickly ducked a thrust from another quarter. He scuttled back, but wasn’t fast enough to avoid a third thrust, which hit him in the left shoulder. Cazio grunted and grabbed the blade to hold it there, but didn’t have time to run the fellow through, for they were all converging on him again.

  “Cazio!” Austra cried in pure anguish.

  Then a bottle struck one of the men in the head, bursting his ear into a red mess.

  Anne looked to see who had thrown it and discovered around thirty men of the neighborhood standing behind her, armed with knives and wooden clubs.

  One of them was Ospero. He flicked his thumb at Erieso.

  “You there!” Ospero grated. “What do you want with these girls?”

  Erieso’s lips tightened. “That’s my business.”

  “You’re in the Perto Veto, pretty boy. That makes it our business.”

  Erieso’s able men had withdrawn to stand near him. One held his ear, and blood flowed between his fingers. Anne suddenly felt as if she were caught between a pair of lions.

  Erieso’s face worked through several expressions before he finally sighed. “That one, the one with red hair. She’s betrothed to Prince Latro, but the stupid little catella is smitten with this fellow here and ran off. I’ve been sent to get her back.”

  “Is that so?” Ospero said. “Is there a reward for her return?”

  “No.”

  “Then why would you be so stupid as to follow her down here?”

  “My honor demands it. I promised to get her back.”

  “Uh-huh. Prince Latro, eh? The same Prince Latro that put the tariff on our fish, so he can sell his cheaper? The same Prince Latro that hanged Fuvro Olufio?”

  “I know nothing of these things.”

  “Then you don’t know much. But I’ll tell you this—if cutting off my nose would bring pain to Latro da Villanchi, I’d do it gladly. He’ll get his girl back. From us. In pieces.”

  Erieso’s face reddened even further. “You won’t do that. The prince’s wrath would be terrible. He would have the meddisso send troops here. You want that?”

  “No,” Ospero allowed. “But we’re modest, down here in the Perto. We don’t much care if we get credit for this sort of thing, only that it happens.”

  “But how will you—” Erieso’s eyes widened as the men suddenly surged forward. “No!”

  He turned and ran, and his men ran with him.

  Ospero laughed as he watched them vanish from sight. Then he turned back to Anne, Austra, and Cazio.

  “He was lying, so I guess there is a reward for you,” he said to Anne. “I think you’d better tell me what it is, and I think you’d better do it now.”

  As if to emphasize his point, Ospero’s men drew nearer.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE BASIL-NIX

  I’m going to die, Leoff thought. It seemed a slow thought, as everything seemed slow, and limned in a peculiar golden light. He could see everything about the man who was approaching him all at once. His hair was light, cut in uneven bangs. It was too dark to tell the color of his eyes, but they were set wide on his face. His jerkin was open almost to his belly. His ears stuck out. He had a rag tied around his head.

  And there was the sword, lovely as a viper in the moonlight.

  He’d meant to run, but when he looked up and saw how close death was already, he knew he didn’t want it in the back.

  Then something came sailing past him, another shard of moonlight, and it hit the man high in the chest. That stopped him. He yelped and looked down. Something metal hit the ground and sang a perfect note. It seemed to hang there, undergirded by a strange set of harmonies.

  “Damn,” Gilmer said.

  “Silly bugger,” the man said, lifting his sword again. “I’ll have your testicles for that before you die.” But then he hesitated.

  The singing Leoff had heard hadn’t been in his head. It was there, below the wall, a spine-chilling sound. It was only reluctantly that he recognized it as men screaming—or crying out, at least, at the tops of their lungs.

  The man with the sword was standing just next to the edge, and he looked over.

  Then he tried to join the song. His mouth gaped, and the cords of his neck stood out like wire. Finally, he simply collapsed.

  “What?” Gilmer started forward to look, as well, but Leoff tackled him to the stone and lay there, trying to hold him down.

  “Don’t,” he gasped. “Don’t. I don’t know what was in that box, but I know we must
n’t look at it.”

  The man with the sword had fallen so his head was turned toward them. Even in the moonlight they could see that his eyes had gone to ash, just like the eyes of the other dead in Broogh.

  There was still shouting below.

  “Don’t look at it!”

  “Cover your eyes! Let Reev and Hilman get it.”

  “It didn’t get them all,” Leoff whispered.

  “What didn’t get them all?” Gilmer asked.

  Leoff noticed that the old man was trembling.

  A stronger, more commanding voice rose over the others: “That came from the wall. Someone’s still in there. Find them. Kill them.”

  “That means us,” Leoff said. “Come on. And don’t look!”

  The two men scrambled down the stairs and back into the silent town.

  “How long will it take them to come around?” Leoff huffed, as they raced over rough cobblestones.

  “Not long. They’ll come in by the south gate. We’d better hide. Come on, this way.”

  He led Leoff through several turns, across the square below the bell tower, and up another street.

  “I wonder how many it got, whatever it was?”

  “No telling.”

  “Shsst!” Gilmer said. “Stop. Listen.”

  Leoff did, and though the sounds of his breath and heart cloyed in his ears, he could make out what Gilmer had stopped for—the footsteps of several men approaching the spot where they stood.

  “Come on, in here,” Gilmer said. He unlatched the door of a three-story building, and they entered it. They took the stairs to the second story, to a room with a bed and a curtained window. Gilmer went to the window.

  “Take care,” Leoff said. “They might have it with them.”

  “Auy, raeht. I’ll just peek.”

  The smaller man went to the window. Leoff was watching him nervously when a hand clapped over his mouth from behind.

  “Shh,” a voice said in his ear. “It’s me, Artwair.”

  Gilmer turned at even that faint sound.

  “My lord Artwair!” he gasped.