The Hunter's Haunt

by Dave Duncan

  Vandok had been one of the bloodiest killers in the history of mankind. Compared with Vandok, even his great-grandfather Hannail had been a baby bunny. At least Hannail had sacrificed only animals to Hool.

  "That is absurd!" I howled. "That is pigswill! You made that all up!"

  The actress looked hurt. "You mean you will swear to the truth of every word you told us before, Master Omar? You really know what thoughts passed through the head of a woman two hundred years ago?"

  "A little poetic license is one thing, but—"

  "I do not recall," the dowager said, "that we specified anything about truth? Entertainment was all that we required. Thank you, Mistress Maria, for an inspiring tale. We all enjoyed your story … Didn't we?"

  The minstrel raised his head. Tears streamed from his swollen eyes. "It was an unforgettable performance, my lady," he croaked.

  "As I recall the legends," the soldier muttered, "White-thorn did gain her revenge in the end, so she must have escaped, surely?"

  "Yes," I snarled. "But I never heard tell of how she escaped."

  "Well, now you did," the actress said triumphantly.

  "It demonstrates—" Gwill sneezed. "—how light may be shed on truth in the most ast—" He sneezed again. "—onishing places."

  "It does indeed," I said. "In time all veils of ignorance and deceit are stripped away."

  The actress glared as she appraised our threat; her rosebud lips drew back to show sharp little teeth. I smiled, and Gwill tried to, but his nose and eyes were running too hard. There was no way she could ever explain away those tattoos. Quite literally, she must keep her husband in the dark, pleading the modesty of the nunnery, refusing to disrobe with the light on. He would not remain burgomaster of Schlosbelsh very long if it became known that he had married a whore.

  Ignorant of our unspoken conversation, he hugged her with a fur-draped arm. "A wonderful story, and beautifully told, my cherub! How about some wine to celebrate your success, my little honeycake? Innkeeper, have you wine?"

  Fritz was on his feet in an instant. "Indeed I do, my lord! I have some excellent red from the vineyards of the monks of Abaila, and white from the slopes above Poluppo. Sweet and new, my lord, stored in a cool place."

  Ha! In those northern lands, and especially in remote rural taverns, wine tended to be both very old and very sour, long past its best. Down in Furthlin, the vintners had discovered a way of sealing wine in glass bottles so it would often stay fresh for years, but the secret had not yet found its way anywhere close to the Hunters' Haunt. The bulge of the merchant's belly suggested that he was more familiar with beer than wine.

  Not to be upstaged, the dowager demanded some fruitcake. Frieda hurried out to attend to that, close on her brother's heels. I rose and shuffled over to the fireplace to refill my stein from the copper jug. I wanted to inspect the note in my pocket, but I was conscious of many disapproving eyes on me.

  The notary favored me with a ferrety scowl as I wandered back to my place beside him. "You are compounding your felony!"

  "If I am to die for a dog, then you may see I am suitably punished for this offense afterward."

  "Don't blame me for your troubles!"

  I took a long draught and wondered if I dared wipe my mouth on the sleeve of the doublet I was wearing, or whether I would catch rabies from it. Then I turned my attention to the pedant. He was not a type to excite admiration, the small man who wraps himself in the authority of the law and believes he has thereby achieved majesty. His eyes were restless as flies and as hard to catch, his nose long and coarse, peppered with pox and blackheads, his jowls ten years lower than they should be.

  "Why not? You set yourself up as my judge."

  He flushed all the way to his biretta. "I certainly did not! I merely gave my opinion that no secular authority claims jurisdiction here."

  "And therefore the group of you appropriated that authority to yourselves." I took another gulp. The mulled ale was scalding, hot enough to raise a sweat from my scalp to my toes, but I was disinclined to linger over it.

  "The gods judge all men and know all men," the clerk said stiffly. After a moment he added, "But overt manifestation of their omniscience is rare."

  I noted that the wind was not wailing so loud, that the ferns on the floor no long stirred, the shutters had almost ceased their rattling. Climate in the Grimm Ranges is a matter of hours more than years. The storm might have departed, but snow and cold were still waiting out there.

  A heavy tread announced the return of our host, bearing a clay flagon and two small pewter mugs. While the merchant inspected the seal and all eyes were on him, I pulled out the note. The stable key is on the beam above the door, it said. I thrust it back out of sight and drained my stein while Fritz's back was still turned.

  Fair enough. If I was still able to walk when he had done with me, the stable would be a warm sanctuary from the storm. But I would leave tracks. I could not replace the key without leaving the door unlocked behind me, so in the morning he would find me there. It would not work.

  I decided I would do better worrying about how I could respond to Marla's malarkey. At least one person had dropped me a strong hint in the last few minutes.

  The merchant pronounced the wine acceptable. The actress's face twisted when she tasted it, but she agreed it was delicious. The dowager graciously allowed her maid one piece of fruitcake. The fire was stoked again. The audience settled down to listen.

  "Have we not had enough of the Land Between the Seas?" the old soldier suggested. "Can you tell us a tale of some other place, Master Omar?"

  "Indeed I can, Captain, and I was planning to. Mistress Maria has told us of a gallant rescue. I shall recount a deliverance of another sort. Harken, gentle lords and fair ladies, as I unfold for you the strange Tale of the God Who Would Not Speak."

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  9: Omar's Response to the Actress's Tale

  In the reign of the great Emir Mustaf II, the island city of Algazan flourished as it never had before, reaching a pinnacle of wealth that made it the envy of the world. Its ships reached out to lands previously known only in legend, trading in rich fabrics, scented woods, pearls and jade, slaves and spices, oils and perfumes, jewels, artifacts, and wondrously worked ivory. Kings flocked from the mainland to marvel at the glory of its many fine palaces and fabled gardens, merchants thronged from the ends of the earth to its bazaars. A hundred gods dwelt within its temples. Any who dared oppose it on the shores of three oceans, whether they be prince or pirate, were swiftly humbled by the might of its fleet and the armies hired by its gold.

  But not all its avenues were paved with marble nor all its denizens dwellers in palaces. Men and women of a dozen races huddled in slums and tenements, in putrid alleys the rich never saw. For centuries, a human stream had trickled into the cesspits of Algazan: adventurers come to seek their fortunes, refugees from political oppression, malcontents yearning after their own gods. Few had prospered, most had sunk into dismal poverty. Their descendants congealed in lumps beneath the surface of society, enclaves of foreigners existing under uneasy tolerance—distinct from the natives, banned from the benefits of citizenship. The Algazanians discriminated but rarely persecuted. What the foreigners did to one another was worse.

  One was a boy named Juss. He was Algazanian by birth but not by right. His skin and hair were a little lighter than those of the True, his accent faulty and thereby subject to ridicule. On the day of which I shall speak, he was approaching the threshold of manhood. He checked his height frequently against the doorpost, and on the rare occasions when he found himself both unobserved and close to a mirror, he would inspect his upper lip in it, although with more amusement at his own optimism than real hope of encouragement. He was wiry and unusually healthy for the neighborhood in which he lived. His dark eyes were quick and bright. He smiled more than his circumstances would seem to warrant, and the few adults aware of his existence tended to think well of him.

  He w
as employed, after a fashion, by Gozspin the Purveyor of Fresh and Nutritious Vegetable Materials, meaning that Juss was allowed to stand with several other boys outside Gozspin's grubby little store from dawn until an hour before sunset. Whenever a customer departed, having purchased some of Gozspin's moldy roots and soggy leaves, Juss would try to outshout the others in offering to carry them home for her. Four or five times a day his offer would be accepted. He would then follow the lady around the bazaars until she had completed her acquisitions and he was so laden with packages that he resembled a walking bazaar all by himself. Upon arriving at her door, she would grant him whatever gratuity she deemed fitting. He was cheerful and respectful and had a sunny smile; many days he collected ten or even twelve copper mites.

  He was expected to turn over half of them to Gozspin, and did. In return, Gozspin would allow him to buy some of the moldiest and soggiest wares at a sizable discount. If Juss had enough money left over, he would also purchase a stale loaf from the bakery next door. After that, he had the problem of conveying his supper, plus any remaining cash, safely home.

  He lived in a very small room in a very high tenement in what was generally known as the Godless Quarter. To reach it, he had to pass through the territory of the Drazalians, the Jorkobians, the Alfoli, and the Children of Wuzz. Native Algazanians were another problem altogether.

  On the evening of which I tell, Juss carried one loaf, two soft mangoes, and a bundle of almost edible spinach. Detouring up a particularly noisome alley to avoid some Jorkobian youths, he ran afoul of a gang of teenage Alfoli. When the brief encounter was over, he was bereft of his two remaining copper mites and had been kicked in various places for not having had more. Furthermore, his loincloth and sandals reposed in the sewer, and his supper lay in the mud.

  It was a discouraging ending to a hard day, but not an unusual one. Juss gathered up his clothes and the food and walked on. His belly hurt, his right eye was swelling, and he had painful scrapes on his back. It could have been worse. He was later accosted by seven young Children of Wuzz. Concluding from his repugnant appearance that he was unworthy of their attentions, they let him past, promising to see him again the next day.

  He felt relieved but very weary when he arrived at the Mansion of Many Gods. He plodded through a dark tunnel into the central courtyard that held the water trough and the toilets. The sun never shone there, except for a few minutes at noon. Those who lived on the outside of the Mansion despised those whose abodes overlooked the smelly court. The insiders retorted that the streets smelled worse. The two groups had separate stairs and walkways. Juss lived in an inside room on the seventh floor.

  He washed himself, his supper, and his clothes in the communal trough, then headed for the stair. Not unexpectedly, a group of boys mostly older than he were sitting on the bottom step, barring his path. Several of them were chewing dream rope. Behind them sat Flower, their current leader. They all scowled at Juss.

  "Let me by, please," he said.

  "Who got you this time?" Flower demanded.

  "The Emir's guards."

  For a minute nothing more happened, but Juss was not worried. They all knew he was Ven's brother, and in the Mansion of Many Gods that was defense enough. They disliked him because he refused to join the gang and play his part in molesting Drazalians, Jorkobians, Alfoli, and the especially despicable Wuzzians.

  Eventually Flower said, "Let him," and two boys wriggled aside to open a space. Juss climbed through, alert for hands grabbing his ankles, but today there was none of that.

  He climbed one flight, went along the walkway, up the next flight …

  Old folk sitting by their doors greeted him and he responded. He paused to talk with Moonlight, who was growing prettier and more interesting all the time. He had an even longer chat with Joyful and Intrepid, his closest buddies, and they commiserated with him on his new bruises. On the fourth floor ancient Fine-jade asked him if he would fill her water pail for him, so he left his supper in her care and trotted all the way back down with the bucket. On the sixth floor, Storm-blast, who was even older, asked Juss to take his slop bucket down and empty it, so down he went again … It took him a third of an hour to reach the room he shared with Ven.

  Someone had been rummaging in his absence, but that was not unusual. A quick check of the secret place under the floorboards told him that it had not been discovered. That was where the treasures lived: the book, and the money, spare clothes, and of course the family god, who kept it safe. Nothing else in the room had any value: two thin sleeping rugs, a water pot, an old box that served as a table. None of those had been removed.

  Having divided the loaf and the other victuals into two unequal halves, Juss took the family god out of the secret place and set him on the box. Then he sat down wearily on his mat and waited until Ven arrived, a short while later. Ven had brought a bag of onions.

  Ven was nine years older, and considerably larger than Juss would ever be. Like many large men, he moved with slow diffidence, as if constantly frightened of breaking something or hurting someone. His gray eyes and unusually light brown hair had caused him much grief in his younger days among the darker multitudes of Algazan, and he had learned then that his strength must be used with caution, even when righteously provoked. His stubbly reddish beard and crooked nose made him look much fiercer than he really was. In troth he was a stolid, deliberate young man, although he could be fierce when roused. He had been father and mother to Juss since their parents had died ten years earlier, and Juss worshipped him with all the fanatical zeal of a boy who has only one relative in the world to love and admire.

  Ven worked as a porter at the docks, puffing his great strength to good use. He frequently earned thirty mites or more in a day, although half of that went to the gang boss, of course, and another five to the porters' guild.

  The brothers smiled at each other. They asked after each other's day, and each responded that it had not been too bad, nor especially exciting. Ven pretended not to notice Juss's swelling bruises. He remarked that the meal looked good, although he was a truthful man when truth was important. He knelt down before the god on his box, and Juss knelt beside him, taking comfort from his brother's nearness and strength.

  "Most Holy Father Kraw," Juss said, "we thank you for keeping us safe this day and for giving us our food." It was the prayer he could remember their father speaking, and he said it every evening.

  The god did not reply. The god never did.

  The Godless had earned their name because they never attended any of the hundred temples on the island. They had no need to, for every family owned its own god, like Kraw.

  Kraw was a dragon's tooth, old and black and about the size of both of Ven's fists together—quite frightening if one thought about how big the dragon himself must have been.

  But he never spoke. Other boys told Juss that their family god spoke to their fathers, or even to them sometimes, but Kraw did not speak. Still, a dragon's tooth was a much more impressive god than any mere figure of pottery or metal or stone, and Juss was proud of him.

  They ate their meal in silence, Juss taking the smaller portion because he was the smaller brother. They chewed hungrily and did not take long. They did not experience the feeling of bloated satisfaction that a large repast will give. Never having known that sensation, Juss did not miss it. The light from the little window was fading already and soon it would be time to curl up on the mats. Most nights the brothers would talk for a while then, in the dark. Ven would tell Juss a story about their parents, whom Juss could barely remember. After that they would sleep, preparing for another day.

  There being no dishes to wash, and neither of them feeling thirsty enough to run all the way down to the trough for a drink, Juss went to the secret place and brought out the book.

  Next to Kraw himself, the book was their most precious possession. Ven had been taught to read by their mother, more or less. He had taught Juss, also, and in the evenings they would read the book together. Juss w
as a now a better reader than Ven was, although he concealed that fact from his brother as far as he could. Neither of them was truly expert. The book was difficult; it related the history of the land their parents had come from long ago, and it was written in the language of the Godless. Although they spoke that tongue with their friends and neighbors, in their daily lives they conversed in Algazanian, which was very different. Neither brother understood much of the book.

  Ven smiled an apologetic smile and shook his head. "Not tonight," he said. "How much money do we have?"

  Juss turned away quickly so that his sudden worry would not show. Although he already knew the answer, he scrabbled on his knees over to the loose plank and peered in the secret cache. "One silverfish and four mites." There had been four silverfish a few days ago, but Ven had needed a wisdom tooth pulled. The pain of it had been driving him crazy.

  He sighed. "Tomorrow is Pearl's birthday."

  Juss said, "Oh. I didn't know."

  Ven was courting the daughter of Stalwart the carter. She had hinted that his attentions were not unpleasing, although her mother certainly disapproved. Juss had mixed feelings about the matter and was rather ashamed of himself in consequence. He certainly wanted his brother to be happy. He could admit now that girls were pleasant company, but they did not promote the same sense of urgency in him that they did in Ven. He understood that he would feel otherwise when he was older. Of course it would be years before Ven could save up enough money to raise the matter of marriage. A birthday gift was a more immediate problem.

  "I said I would go out this evening," Ven muttered.

  Juss tried not to show his fear. "I will come with you and watch."

  "No you won't! I feel distracted if you are around, you know that! Now don't worry and don't get into mischief. I'll be all right." With those words, Ven jumped up and strode quickly out, before Juss could start arguing. Juss was much better at arguing than he was.