An hour later they passed through the high stone gates. Perdama drew her veil across her face, as much to filter the stench of rotting vegetables and emptied chamber pots as to preserve her modesty. The bodyguards cleared a path through the mobs that clustered around the slapdash merchant stalls. Dirty children paused in their chases and sneering old women leaned from their windows to stare at Tunj’s entourage.
Perdama kept her expression blank and her gaze focused on an empty spot ahead of her. Her father, however, fidgeted in his saddle, glancing from one snide of the street to the other. Young men leered at them like wolves.
It is the same in every city, she thought.
Then the people parted. Tunj’s horsemen pulled up short and the carriages halted. Silence descended.
Four hooded figures, carrying a huge bier made from black leather and bones, lumbered down the cross street. A corpse lay upon the bier, partly concealed by a crude blanket.
The street rabble backed away as if from a pride of lions. The hired guide leaned toward Tunj and Perdama, speaking in a low voice: “A local funeral procession, sir.”
Zim, Perdama’s young maid, stood on the carriage bench, peering over the horsemen in front. “Are they deformed?” she asked, too loudly.
Perdama noted that the figures were oddly shaped beneath their purple cloaks, hunched and thick, like huge apes. Rather than answer, the guide gestured for silence. The procession disappeared among the twisting streets, and Perdama decided she must inquire about the local customs at her first opportunity.
Their guide led them through the maze of streets into a broad courtyard. It was the most opulent inn to be found in the city, and the proprietor owed a favor to Tunj’s patron.
“Welcome! Welcome!” the man cried as he waddled toward them. He was red-faced and sweating, as if hustling his great soft body here and there drove his heart to the brink of collapse. “Wonderful to have you as my guest, sir! How fares your noble patron, the Duke?”
“Quite well. His holdings expand toward the sea even now.”
The innkeeper exclaimed that it was excellent news, then praised the beauty of Perdama, the quality of Tunj’s guards and servants, then Tunj himself.
“What brings you to our city, if I may ask, sir?”
Tunj climbed from his horse. “We are to take possession of a piece of land beside a certain river. It is quite isolated, and I am determined to find a suitable husband for my daughter before our pleasant exile. We meet this evening with Orsinix, fourth son of Count Ord.”
“Well, well!” the fat man said. He smiled and leaned close to Perdama. “You will find many handsome men of good breeding in Zul-Bha-Sair, but few more dashing than Orsinix.”
The girl was unmoved by such remarks. “I do not value such things as appearance, which fades over the years. I am seeking a man like my father, whose modest grace and virtue will last all his life.”
The innkeeper bowed. “In that case your search may be long indeed.”
Tunj tilted his head to acknowledge the compliment, then glanced at the closing courtyard gates. A crowd of men in tattered red and purple rags stood in the street, staring at the ivory ornamentation on his carriages.
As their belongings were carried into their rooms, Tunj and Perdama enjoyed a lunch of egg and bulgur cakes, with roast squab. Tunj talked business with the innkeeper, selling him a flagon of potion that would help his aged mother sleep peacefully through the night, but turning aside an inquiry into something that might “ease her of her many difficult years.”
They napped for an hour, then Zim helped prepare Perdama’s toilette. At dusk, a team of riders with golden cloaks and tasseled helmets rode into the courtyard, and Tunj, Perdama and Zim were conducted to the home of Orsinix.
Orsinix was young and handsome, with long hair and a braided beard. His voice was deep and low, forcing his guests to stand quite near him while they talked. When Tunj asked why he would move so far from home to marry Perdama, Orsinix explained that there were three estates and four brothers in his family, and hinted at a deep sibling rivalry.
They ate another meal of squab, and afterwards, the Lady Ord suggested Perdama accompany her on a tour of the house. For a quarter hour they walked through parlors and ballrooms without a word passing from the Lady’s pinched lips.
They paused at a doorway. The Lady Ord slid back the cover of a peephole, glanced inside, then indicated Perdama do the same.
She saw a long fire-lit hall. Zim leaned her back against a door jamb, with her hands resting in the small of her back. Orsinix loomed over her, his hand resting on the wall beside her head. Both were smiling. He whispered something that made Zim blush and giggle.
The Lady Ord shut the peephole. “My son would destroy you.”
Perdama went to her father. Zim was summoned, and they left. In the carriage, Perdama unhooked her veil and leaned toward her father. “I find it more credible that he flees outraged husbands rather than treacherous brothers.” With a sidelong glance, she noticed Zim’s frown of disappointment.
That night Tunj and Perdama awoke to the sound of screams echoing through the inn. They wrapped themselves in their robes and ran through the halls.
Two of the guards stood by the carriage house. The innkeeper paced beside them, wringing his hands.
“Good sir Tunj, I’m appalled. Nothing like this…”
Tunj shushed him. “What happened?”
The shorter guard gestured toward the carriage house. He bore a bloody cut on his cheek, and his hand ax was stained with blood made black by the firelight. The other guard was unmarked.
“Have you left your post?”
The unwounded guard sheathed his sword. “I heard a cry and…”
“Yes, yes. Return to it. Perdama, wait out here for me, my pixie.” The bloodied guard led him through the door and lifted the burning lamp high.
Unbidden, Perdama stepped into the room and gasped. Five men lay sprawled in the dirt, their heads and necks cleaved with terrible wounds. They wore dirty rags, identical in color to those the men outside the gate had worn that afternoon. She felt a clutching in her stomach. Perhaps these were the very men, dead only hours later, their fists still clenched around their notched, rusty knives.
She stared at the bodies, her eyes wide, her fingers pressed against her lips. How still, they looked. How peaceful. Before her father could order her to her room, she knelt beside a sixth corpse, which was propped against the wall. This was a guard.
“Oh father, can’t you save him? One of your philters would do it, I’m sure.”
Tunj knelt beside the body. “Hold that light close.” The man had been stabbed in both lungs, possibly also the heart. A third stroke had entered his kidneys. Blood no longer flowed from his wounds and his chest was still. Tunj could find no pulse. “There is nothing I can do for him.”
“I would pay for your ministrations,” the wounded guard said. “He is my brother.”
“I’m sorry. It is already too late. I can give you a salve for that cut on your cheek, though. It would heal without a scar.”
The man sneered at him. “No. I must show this scar to our mother, when I bear his body home.”
The innkeeper hurried through the door. “Oh no, you can’t do that. There are many laws in Zul-Bha-Sair, but only one that can never be broken; all those who die within its walls belong to Mordiggian, the Mortician God.”
“What? He must be buried with the family, or we will be separated in the next world.”
“I’m sorry, good sir,” the innkeeper said, “but there can be no exception. The doctor will come in the morning, then the priests of Mordiggian by afternoon. It is his law.”
The guard tore a length of cloth from a thief’s corpse and wiped the ax head clean. “We shall see.”
Tunj grasped his daughter’s elbow and pulled her back to the inn.
They sat in their rooms and watched the sun rise. Unable to sleep, they ventured downstairs, where breakfast waited for them. They ate
in silence.
The guide informed them they had another appointment scheduled for lunch. Perdama wandered upstairs and fell into a troubled sleep.
She awoke to a knocking at her door. Her father told her they were to leave soon, but Zim was nowhere to be found. Perdama dressed quickly, knotting her veil and pinning up her hair. On impulse, she went to her father’s room, but it was empty.
His chest of philters sat on the dresser. She turned the catch and opened it. All her life she had watched her father at work, and she knew the uses of many of his potions. She drew out a vial of thick yellow liquid. This could heal the guard’s wounded cheek. She was certain he would be grateful for it after the sharpest edge of his grief had passed. Because the yellow potion could stain the skin and clothes like ink, she wrapped it in eel skin and hid it in her pocket.
She heard angry voices as she stepped outside. Four priests of Mordiggian had entered the courtyard, and the dead guard’s brother shouted challenges at them.
Perdama slipped her hand into her pocket and gripped the vial. It didn’t hold enough fluid to heal several men, after a large battle. The hunched figures strode forward inexorably. They were unarmed, she noticed, and their hoods drooped over their eyes. Could they even see the soldier and his weapon?
The guard charged the lead priest, his ax high, grief and rage screaming from his lips. The hunched figure released the handle of the bier and lunged forward. In a motion almost too quick to see, the priest snatched away the ax with his left hand and struck the guard upon the chest with his right. Limbs flailing, the man flew back and struck his head against the flagstones. He lay still.
Without thinking, Perdama rushed toward them. She heard her father cry out to her, and the innkeeper’s voice as well, but she could only see the priest, ax in hand, standing above the wounded soldier.
The other priests set the bier on the ground and, to Perdama’s astonishment, the lead figure tossed the hatchet aside and dragged the carriage house doors open.
She knelt beside the wounded guard. He still breathed, but she guessed he would not wake for several minutes. The lead priest held the door wide as the other three entered the carriage house. Each emerged a moment later with a body under each arm. They stacked them high on the bier, thief and guard alike, without regard to station.
Perdama, kneeling beside the wounded man, still gripping the yellow philter, glimpsed the silver masks beneath their hoods. She shuddered. They were powerful, and terrible, these creatures. Like a musk, she could smell the grave-sent might that fueled them.
They lifted the handles of the bier. The lead priest, the merciful one, was nearest to her, and with reckless impulse, Perdama unstopped the vial and splashed its contents onto the trailing edge of its robe.
She heard the innkeeper cry out. Many voices, it seemed, screamed in terror and outrage. She watched the hunched figure as it walked away. It took no notice of her action.
Tunj rushed toward her. “Where is Zim? She should not have let you near this ugliness!”
“What have you done?” the innkeeper said. “You threw paint on a priest of Mordiggian!”
“I wanted to be able to find him again,” she said. “They all dress alike.” She cradled the soldier’s head. A small amount of philter remained in the vial, and she prepared to drip it over his injured skull.
Tunj stopped her. “Wait until they are gone some minutes.” He looked across the courtyard. The gates closed behind the retreating priests.
The innkeeper fumed for some time and even threatened to turn them out. They had risked bringing the wrath of a God on his house, he told them. But Tunj would not allow it. With reasoned words and a few gold coins, he convinced the man to let them stay until the morning, as they’d planned.
Perdama dripped the healing potion onto the back of the guard’s head. His eyes fluttered open and he stumbled to his feet. He glared at Tunj and the innkeeper, then at his ax lying on the flagstones. He clenched both his fists and lurched into the carriage house, where his brother had lain. He did not emerge for a long time.
Their guide led Perdama and Tunj to the house of General Langromas, where they were served a light lunch of grilled vegetable skewers and spicy skewered eggs. Langromas was a dour man who slumped in his chair and scowled at his food. His nose was squashed to one side, and a long stitch-scar covered his forehead.
“You are very beautiful, and I am very ugly,” he said. “You would never be happy with me as your husband.”
“If all I wanted was a handsome face,” she replied, “I would have been married in one of the several cities we visited before Zul-Bha-Sair. I seek a man of peaceful calm, mercy, and virtue, like my father.”
“I was a soldier many years. I have been party to much pain and death.”
“You have done your duty. It speaks little of what is in your heart.”
Tunj cleared his throat. “You have lived and served this city your whole life. Why would you choose to end your years so far from home?”
“In my day I led many campaigns against the peoples to the north. I won many victories. Now they have become allies of the city, and there is much talk in the high offices of bringing a writ against me, for deeds done in time of war.”
A servant cleared away their plates while another laid a samovar and cups. “What’s this?” the General said when he saw the cups being filled. “It is too late in the day for the black tea! Why didn’t you prepare the red, you fool?” The servant backed away with well-practiced fear, and Langromas hurled a tea cup at him. It bounced off the man’s kneecap and shattered against the wall. The servant limped toward the kitchen.
“Bring the red! Quickly!” Langromas shouted. “And clean up this mess!”
When he turned back to the table, he saw that Perdama and Tunj were standing. Tunj slipped on his coat, and Perdama wound the veil about her face.
Perdama’s voice was calm, “Good day, sir.”
Langromas stood and bowed stiffly. “Good day, madam,” was all he said.
On the trip back to the inn Tunj rode beside her on the carriage. “Father, am I too choosy? Am I a burden to you by holding my standards too high?”
He patted her hand and laughed. “The world and the people in it are my burden. A kind husband should not be too large a favor to ask of the gods.”
The guide halted the entourage. Street merchants and old women streamed by them, and Tunj rose on his bench. “Another funeral procession?” he said, and the sudden jolting of the carriage told him that Perdama had leapt from her seat.
She pushed through her father’s mounted guards and stumbled into the intersection. Four priests of Mordiggian carried a bier through the cross street. It was laden with a tiny corpse, and they were walking downward, toward the center of the city.
Perdama stepped into the empty street and approached the nearest priest. She unhooked her veil. “Excuse me,” she said, checking the hem of his robe for a telltale splash of yellow. “Excuse me, good sir, but I wonder if…”
The figure turned to her. Was that forged silver skull mask twisting into a snarl?
Something heavy struck her, lifting her off her feet. Suddenly the guide’s pocked and powdered face leaned close to hers, and he was hauling her toward the crowd.
“Relea—”
“QUIET!” His face twisted with rage and terror, and he dragged her to Tunj’s carriage.
“Sir,” the guide said, barely holding his breath, “you have been fair to me and the other men, so I will not desert you in this terrible place. But the innkeeper did not exaggerate when he said it was dangerous to approach or follow the priests when they perform their funereal duties. Your daughter risks her life, yours, and every other man’s here! Think on my words, sir, or you will find yourself without escort!”
He turned to Perdama and, with shocking impertinence, stared into her eyes. “Next time, you little parlor doll, I will leave you to your ill fortune.”
“What are you trying to do to me, my pixie?” T
unj whispered, after she mounted the carriage.
She struggled to retain her composure. She could not remember a time when she had been so insulted by a servant. “Father, if a man attacked someone, wouldn’t the victim kill the attacker if he could? Indeed, wouldn’t it be common sense, since sparing the attacker’s life might allow him to try again, and perhaps succeed?”
“So this is about that guard with the dead brother.”
“No, father, it is about mercy. Of all the prospective husbands I have met, I do not believe one of them would have spared that poor grieving man’s life. Dear sir, only you have that kindness, you and that strange priest.”
“But we do not know what they look like,” the innkeeper said, when they questioned him on the subject. “No one for generations has seen their true forms. Personally, I believe the city would empty overnight if they did. They might be hideous.”
“I have said before,” she answered, “that I do not care about appearance.”
“But if they are not even men?”
“Judging by the men I have met these last months, that would be in their favor.” Perdama covered her smile with her tiny hand. She felt quite clever until she noticed the distraught expression on her father’s face. She rushed around the table and kissed his plump cheek.
“I’m sorry, father. I did not mean you. You know I hold you to be the paragon of men.”
Tunj fidgeted with the braids on his waistcoat, his thick fingers twirling them into knots. “That is not my concern, my sprite. I fear you have become fixated on… eh…” He glanced at the innkeeper, who shook his head.
“I will not say it, not inside city walls.”
“A monster,” the guide said, stepping out his rightful place in the corner. “I am not afraid to say it, here or anywhere. You pine for a monster.”
But he is my monster, Perdama thought. I have marked him, stained his funeral robe with the color of sun petals. He has been tainted, imprinted with my kind interest, with my light heart, and someday he may stand in my bed chamber, a dour but honest husband, and I may kneel upon the bedclothes, remove his silver mask, and press his brutish animal face to my breast.
Bad Little Girls Die Horrible Deaths: And Other Tales of Dark Fantasy Page 15