by Sam Sykes
“I have, child,” Mocca said, nodding. “And I have so much more work to do.” He stepped over the man, toward the crowd, and extended his arms. “And who among you shall also witness?”
They let out a feral, animalistic screech. In one surge of glistening flesh, they rushed forward: monstrous limbs outstretched and mouths gaping in wails.
And once more, Lenk had to cover his ears. But it did no good.
“—master, save me! Save me! I have been faithful! You promised—”
They screamed.
“—it hurts so much, master! Make it stop! Make it stop, please, I beg—”
They wailed.
“—let it end! LET IT END! OH, MASTER, I WANT SO BADLY—”
Their every word was racked with such agony that it was poison in Lenk’s ears. He could stand it no longer. He fought his way through the throng of monstrosities, who ignored him in their rush to the dais.
And when he was finally clear of them, he cast one final look to the center of the square.
And there he saw Mocca, his arms outstretched, his beard of vipers writhing, a hundred misshapen hands reaching out toward him.
And a look of ecstasy scarred across his face.
TWO
TEN POUNDS OF FLESH
In the right light, Cier’Djaal might look like a beautiful city.
As dawn turned to morning proper, its light—still too early to beat down as a desert sun should—fell over the city like a blanket. And nowhere did it shine brighter than the Silken Spire.
A breeze heralded the sun, sending ripples through the great sheets of spun silk that clung between the three pillars overlooking the city. Their colors, a riot of crimsons and violets and silvers and midnights and indigos and oceans, all took on a heavenly glow as the sunlight seeped through them.
And against the bright golden glow, the Spire’s tailors could be seen in eight-legged shadows upon the silken sheets they wove. The spiders, each one the size of a horse, crawled lazily across their haphazard tapestry of a web. Idly, they spun their webs, adding another strand of color to the wild rainbow if the mood took them. Frequently, they fed on whatever food had been left out for them that day. Upon their gorgeous miasma of a web, they seemed quite content.
And Asper couldn’t help but wonder if they ever looked down.
Did they ever look down on the Souk and see that its many market stalls and stands now stood empty, its merchants long fled? Did they ever look long to Cier’Djaal’s neighborhoods and see the smashed windows, caved-in roofs, burnt-out husks of homes? Did they ever glance down to the streets and see the cold bodies of wives and husbands and soldiers and merchants and let their eight eyes linger there, if only to wonder if those carcasses might be good to eat?
Did they ever wonder what had become of their city?
Don’t be stupid, Asper chided herself. The view’s probably great from up there.
Indeed, she thought as she turned away from the Silken Spire, in the right light, Cier’Djaal might seem like a beautiful city.
Just so long as one didn’t look down.
And, especially, so long as one didn’t venture into a neighborhood like the Thicket.
Thickets being relatively unknown in the desert, the small collection of dark houses with their peaked roofs and wooden doors had been named for its once-thriving foreigner community. Adventurers, journeymen, and merchants from places like Karneria, Nivoire, and Muraska had all come to Cier’Djaal to seek their fortunes and found themselves in the dingy little neighborhood where the houses were made of subpar wood and the shadows of Cier’Djaal’s walls seemed to cling just a little bit dimmer.
The foreigners had mostly fled now, as anyone with sense or luck had when the war between Karneria’s black-clad Imperial Legion and Saine’s rowdy bands of bird-riding warriors had broken out. Months later, looters and squatters and thieves had had their fill of the Thicket and left behind decaying houses stripped of any goods, a neighborhood spared the violence that had wracked the rest of the city only because it seemed too shitty to fight over.
And when foreigners, thieves, and armies alike had turned up their noses at such a place, what manner of creature moved in?
This was what Asper was intent on finding out.
“This is a bad idea.”
No matter who protested.
“A really bad idea.”
Or how right they probably were.
Asper didn’t look over her shoulder. Such an action would suggest doubt to anyone who might be watching. She had walked into enough shitholes in her life to know that one didn’t timidly creep in. If she had to dip her toes into shit, she might as well dive in with both feet.
“We should turn back,” someone said from behind her.
“Feel free,” she replied, continuing to stride through the Thicket’s shadowed streets.
“The boy’s right,” another person grunted. “This place didn’t have the best reputation when the city was still safe. We used to send Jhouche here in teams of six.”
“We don’t have six,” she said. “We have three. I’m happy to do it with one, if you’re scared.”
“It’s not a matter of being scared,” the second voice protested. “It’s a matter of being sensible. And coming to a place like this based on an anonymous tip? That’s just madness!”
Only at this did Asper bother to turn around. She took in her companions with a hard-eyed glare. The young dark-skinned, delicate-featured Djaalic man in his blue priest’s robe looked hardly fit to be here, eyes darting about nervously from beneath his hood. And even the middle-aged man in the polished armor of a guard with the thick beard streaked with gray looked ill at ease in these dark streets.
“And who else am I to ask for help, Dransun?” she demanded of the guard. “Who is left?” She gestured to the houses, to the empty windows. “The war has bled the city dry. There’s no one left to save it but us.”
“Our intelligence suggests that the Karnerians and Sainites have retreated to their bases.” The young man in the robe spoke up. “It’s been months of fighting now. They’ve got casualties of their own to worry about.”
“And ours outnumber theirs twenty to one, Aturach,” Asper replied. “And even with all those dead and wounded, there’s still so many more people that could stand to die.” She narrowed her eyes. “Or had you forgotten there’s an entire tulwar army just a few days from Cier’Djaal?”
Both Dransun and Aturach flinched at that knowledge. And, Asper admitted, it felt cruel to remind them. At least in the Thicket, they could have pretended for a few moments that their biggest concerns were bad neighborhoods.
But things in this city had a way of getting out of hand.
Months ago, Asper’s sole concern was getting paid along with her companions. Weeks ago, her attentions were on saving Cier’Djaal’s people from the foreign armies of Karneria and Saine tearing each other apart in its streets. And now, after a few mere days, her thoughts were for the army of savage tulwar, simian and barbaric and brimming with steel and flame, lurking out in the tribelands beyond the gates. The savagery of the tulwar, thousands strong, would dwarf any foreigner’s, she knew.
Because she knew who led them.
“Suffice to say,” Asper said, “we are not at the point where sensibility is an option. Lest you forget.”
“I can’t forget, priestess,” Dransun said with a sneer. “I was there to see you get your ass kicked.”
At his words, the pains returned: the creak of her fractured ribs, the ache of a jaw that had been nearly broken, the throbbing pain of her left arm in its sling. She felt all the bruises on her face and on her body beneath her robe flare up. Somehow, in all the hustle and bustle of trying to keep from dying horribly, she had almost forgotten she was close to dying horribly.
She forced herself not to blink. Every time she closed her eyes, she could see Gariath in her head: his teeth bared in a snarl, his fist hammering into her jaw, his clawed fingers twitching as he so effor
tlessly snapped her arm. And if she wasn’t careful, she could hear his voice as he swore to burn Cier’Djaal to the ground.
The memory aggravated the pain. Every breath suddenly felt ragged and her body screamed in shapeless agonies. And in response to the pain, something inside her burned: a profound agony, a more eloquent pain, that spoke pointedly as it stirred inside her broken arm.
They will die, the pain purred through a voice laced with white heat. You can’t save them all.
She gritted her teeth, drew in a deep breath that felt like swallowing rusted knives, ignored that pain, ignored the other pains. Or tried to.
Deep breaths, she said. Once. Twice. Again. Until it’s bearable. You can handle pain. You can handle this.
And at this, the pain inside her laughed.
“Turn back if you want,” she suddenly said, turning around. “But if we’re going to save this city, we’ve got only one chance.” She started stalking into the shadows of the Thicket. “And it’s in here.”
She never stopped. Never looked behind her. Never gave them a choice to do anything but follow her.
They traveled in silence through the Thicket. Their eyes occasionally darted at stray shapes moving between the shadows. And though Dransun occasionally reached for his sword and Aturach often muttered a prayer, Asper did not so much as blink.
After all, what left in this city could possibly threaten her?
She came to a halt in front of a building. She glanced at its doorframe, then pulled a piece of parchment out of her sling and unfolded it with her good hand and her teeth.
House 117.
As it was written on the parchment, so was it burned into the doorframe. Knock three times, the parchment read. Then wait. Then two times. Password is “oil-based landscape.”
She glanced at Dransun and Aturach. They took up positions behind her, their eyes on the alleys and street. Marching into danger was quickly becoming routine for them.
Asper rapped on the door, as instructed. Three times. A brief pause. Then twice again.
A long silence passed. Long enough that she had just raised her fist to knock once more when a muffled voice spoke from behind the door.
“No solicitations,” someone mumbled.
“I’m here about purchasing a painting,” Asper replied.
“Nothing sold here. Go away.”
“I was really hoping to buy a … an oil-based landscape.”
A longer silence passed. And when there was no answer, Dransun muttered under his breath.
“Don’t like this. Silences this long mean he’s talking to someone.”
“You think he sold us out?” Aturach asked.
“‘Sold us out?’” Asper grinned. “Listen to you, all shady and roguelike.”
“I’m not joking,” Aturach snapped back. “We’re in a dangerous place where dangerous people usually dwell. My tone is totally appropriate.” A moment passed. “So … like, dashing roguelike or dangerous roguelike?”
“Dashing,” Asper said. “Definitely.”
Aturach sighed. “How come no one ever thinks I’m dangerous?”
She would have laughed at that, if it didn’t hurt like hell to do so. And in another moment, the door creaked open. A Djaalic man, dark skin mapped with wrinkles and dark hair streaked with gray, peered out.
“This isn’t a good time, shkainai,” he whispered. “The couthi are preparing to leave.”
“This’ll just take a moment,” Asper said.
“No, I mean they’re preparing to leave Cier’Djaal. Things have gotten that bad. They wonder if they can ask to forward you their new address and offer you a modest discount on your next purchase.”
“No. Tell them I need to see them.”
“I have been authorized to offer an extremely generous modest discount.”
Asper leaned forward and jammed her boot through the door. Before he could pull away, she leaned in and seized his collar with her good hand.
“Ordinarily, I’m happy to play these games,” she growled. “I say a bunch of mysterious passwords, we negotiate, you eventually let me in. But I have spent the last few weeks dodging Karnerians and Sainites, pulling corpses out of the muck, and getting the shit kicked out of me. I am sorry to both you and your associates, but if you don’t let me in right now, I will be happy to break down the door and persuade you.”
The man eyed her left arm in its sling. “Your arm is broken.”
“That leaves me three good limbs to shove up your ass.”
The man cleared his throat, eased the door open, and brushed her hand away. He sniffed as she stalked in. The interior of a humble home, sparsely furnished but clean, greeted her.
“In the back,” the Djaalic muttered, gesturing toward a door wedged between two bookshelves at the rear of the house. “And don’t touch anything, please. I don’t know where those three limbs have been.”
Dransun and Aturach fell in behind her as she pushed the door open. The back room was dimly lit by a candle. Several crates had been stacked in the corner. Atop them, a mess of black rags and a portrait of an elegant woman in demure, smiling repose sat unmoving.
But not for long.
As she approached, the black cloth suddenly straightened up and fell down into the shape of a well-cut black robe bearing four sleeves. Two large clawed hands slipped out from the top; a pair of smaller, delicate hands folded pleasantly in front of a long torso. From a height of six and a half feet, the portrait inclined down as whatever eyes lurked behind it focused on Asper.
For a moment, it held her gaze. Then, all four limbs extended in a welcoming gesture as the creature inclined its portrait-covered face low in a long, sweeping bow.
“Pleasantries and clarified surprises of a genial nature are heaped upon your face, shkainai,” the couthi said in a droning monotone. “This one confesses he had not expected to see you so soon.”
“It’s been months, Man-Shii Kree,” Asper replied.
“Apologies are offered in suitably modest amounts, shkainai. This one was hoping to avoid bringing to your attention the unfortunate implication that this one did not expect to see you again, suggesting that he had anticipated an unpleasant and likely painful demise had been visited upon your person.”
Man-Shii Kree straightened up, folding his four hands in front of him. His portrait betrayed no particular emotion.
“This one hopes it is not necessary to indicate his appropriate relief to learn that your fluids remain internal, but this one does so, anyway, in hopes of soothing previous conversational offenses.”
Asper stepped toward Man-Shii Kree. “I’m not here for conversation,” she said. “I’ve been told you and your associates have something I need.”
“It is with immense regret that this one must inform you that Man-Shii Kree’s Curios and Wonderosities, Safe for Human Consumption (Oral), is temporarily unable to provide assistance as relocations are underway. Suitable replacements can be recommended for a modest fee of—”
“I’m not looking for you, specifically. I need you and your associates.” She leaned forward. “I need the Bloodwise Brotherhood.”
Man-Shii Kree stood completely still. For a moment, Asper wondered if he was pretending to be dead in hopes that they would leave. When he spoke again, his monotone took on a chilling quality.
“This one does not wish to so swiftly destroy the doubtless carefully constructed web of intrigue woven by established enigmatic phrasing, shkainai, but this one must inquire as to who, exactly, has offered such information on the dealings of the Brotherhood?”
“The only ones who know about the Brotherhood are the ones who need to know about the Brotherhood,” Asper replied. “That’s the saying, isn’t it?”
“Your aphorism is noted, discerned as charming, and met with apology, as this one would normally demonstrate adequate politeness by indulging it. Immense lament is heaped upon your face, shkainai, as this one must regretfully inform and implore that those who know about the Brotherhood are car
efully selected and given such information.”
Even as his smaller hands remained delicately folded before him, Man-Shii Kree’s immense upper arms unfolded and hung at his sides. His long fingers popped as they flexed, the long black claws at their tips glistening in the firelight.
“It is with even greater regret that this one does not recall you being such a selection, shkainai.”
She heard Dransun reach for his sword. She heard Aturach whisper a curse. She raised a hand to calm them before reaching into her sling. She produced another folded letter, sealed with wax, and handed it to the couthi. The creature’s smaller hands took it gently, unfolded it, and held it up before his portrait.
Another moment passed, this one not nearly so long, nor so quiet. Man-Shii Kree made an unpleasant chittering sound behind his portrait. While it had no emotion that Asper could deduce, she guessed it probably wasn’t anything good.
“I see,” the couthi said.
Without another word, he swept to the far end of the back room. He pulled back a thick rug and reached down, hooking a long finger into a knot in the wooden floor. Hinges creaked as he pried up a hidden door, revealing a dark hole with a ladder leading down.
“Follow me, shkainai,” he said, abnormally curt. “Your associates will wait here.”
“The hell we will,” Dransun said, stepping forward.
“Dransun.” Asper fixed him in place with a glance and kept him there with a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll be fine.”
The guardsman glared from her to the couthi, lips trembling like he wanted to say something particularly fierce. But if he had any idea how to threaten a four-armed freak with a painting for a face, it didn’t come to him. He stepped aside and watched her as she followed Man-Shii Kree down the ladder.
They continued into a basement below the house, winding their way through stacks of crates in the darkness. It was only until she noticed that they had been winding for quite some time that she realized the basement went deeper than she imagined. She reached out a hand and felt a stone wall instead of a wooden one.
“Tell me something.”
Man-Shii Kree’s voice echoed in a suddenly bigger space. His monotone ebbed away with each word, leaving behind a rasping, guttural sound punctuated with harsh clicking noises.