The Acaanan hardly dared breathe as she tiptoed by the dreaded door. As she rounded the corner, and the menacing portal disappeared from sight, she sighed with relief.
Jogging down the stairs, Lakif’s spirits were divided. On one hand, she was praising her craftiness with the surreptitious departure. Three talents was a monumental sum to save. In addition, she was content to close this chapter of her life. On the other hand, she couldn’t help but feel ashamed at the cowardly escape. Her subterfuge would leave the doughty swordsman high and dry.
All thoughts of the Half-man vanished in a flash when the common room appeared. Lakif froze dead in her tracks. Standing near the central hearth was Antipas. Speaking with the lad was a cloaked figure. The tunic’s hood was drawn up, and his broad shoulders were dusted with rain, suggesting that the traveler had just entered. Although Lakif couldn’t see the stranger’s face, the fact that he was markedly taller than the ostler cemented his identity as a Kulthean.
Lakif hugged a pillar and spied on the conversation. Why did she feel they were speaking of her? To her dismay, the lad pointed toward the stairs. Lakif silently cursed the boy’s faithlessness. Two bekas certainly didn’t go far to ensure sealed lips! As the cloaked intruder made for the stairs, Lakif turned and bolted up to the next level.
From her position behind a baboon idol, Lakif had an oblique view of the circling stairs. A moment later, the figure appeared. He was so tall as to easily clear two stairs with but a single step. Thankfully, he continued up the next flight. There was little doubt now the Kulthean was making for the Acaanan’s quarters! The timing had been narrowly perfect. Had Lakif dallied just a minute longer within her room, she would have abutted the stranger in the hallway. A minute earlier and she would have run afoul of the High-man as he entered through the inner gate. Despite the saturnine weather, perhaps this was her lucky day after all!
After the footfalls receded, Lakif dashed for the stairs. Below, the ostler was behind the bar arranging some crates. Lakif wanted to have words with the loose-lipped lad, but on second thought she deemed that an inconspicuous exit was the order of the day. She dropped the key in the standard oak box and darted out of the gate between the sentinel Yatus.
The weather had worsened from a mild patter to a steady rain in the short time since she had left her room. Drenched gusts hurled along the galleries fronting the inn, driving rain in horizontal sheets. She bundled up tightly in her cloak and marched off to battle the elements.
Within a minute, Lakif was crossing the sludge-slicked bridge. One frozen corpse was strung up at the midpoint. A worker was kneeling nearby assembling wood beams from a cart. As he was situated in front of an empty socket, she assumed he was constructing another scaffolding for a future victim. He truly had an unenviable chore given the sorry weather.
Lakif paused only briefly to regard the single corpse. It was different from the hole-infested carrion seen before. From the lack of normal wear and tear, it was clear that this victim had only recently been shackled up, perhaps as recently as this morning. Yet the corpse was already frozen stiff. Its fingers were curled up like it was grasping a piece of fruit or, perhaps, a Stone. She wondered what had happened to the prior lot. Had they finally been cut down and fed to the duras? Had they been claimed by the appetite of the night? Or had they slowly disintegrated in the corrosive wind as each gust brayed off another layer?
“How fortunate you are here!” A voice jolted her. Although several drably garbed businessmen marched by, none had spoken to her. Rather, the cross assembler had risen to confront her.
“Pardon?” She gulped.
“Usually I have to guestimate, but since you’re here, this will only take a moment.” The man stepped forward with a tape measure. “Stretch your arms wide please.”
“What on earth?” She stammered.
“We aim for a custom fit, debtor.” He sneered. The look on his face tore at the Acaanan’s viscera. She panicked and bolted back toward the Goblin Knight Inn. Several pedestrians swerved out of her way. Some steps from the abutment, she turned to see if the architect was close on her trail. Neither he nor his paraphernalia was anywhere to be seen. Only the single corpse marked the site of the exchange. The bridge was too long for him to have loaded his timber and wheeled his cart off in the few seconds that Lakif’s back was turned. She had encountered yet another daydream, but this time it had spooked her.
The daydream’s proclamation forced her to consider her own situation. As she was now a debtor, she should very well have reservations for the bridge. By shortchanging the Half-man three talents, she had rented herself a three-day stint on the poles, a fatal broadcast of her faithlessness to the world. Fortunately, there was no written contract between herself and the Half-man; therefore, such a charge would be impossible to prove. But the question was moot. Lakif couldn’t imagine the guard seeking legal restitution for fraud. He was far too simple-minded for such an act.
Therefore, it was with mixed feelings that Lakif hurried across the bridge, struggling to muster enough spirit to confront the sour day.
IV
The Wager
“LOOK HERE!” THE MAN COUGHED OUT A PLUME OF SMOKE. HE WAS STANDING in an open portal to the Goblin Knight’s tower hearth, pointing down to the bridge below with a sooty shovel.
“What?” Another grime-caked laborer replied, wiping a slurry of soot and sweat from his brow.
“There scurries away the Acaanan, all guilty-like,” the first announced with satisfaction. He followed the observation by spitting out a wad of coal-tinged saliva.
“Where?” the second asked as he stepped into the portal. He leaned side to side on the end of his shovel, vying for a clear view of the bridge.
“Creol, can’t you spot a piece of coal on a slate board?” The first chided his companion with an elbow to the stomach.
“An Acaanan? I don’t see a one!” Creol whined.
“Malarkey!” the first blustered. He then turned to the third member of the pyre-building party, who up to that moment had been dutifully shoveling coal onto a wheelbarrow.
“Half-man, we needs a witness. Feast your eyes on this!” Creol called out.
In response, the Half-man plunged his shovel in the barrow and stepped forward, clapping gritty coal dust off his hands.
“Regan claims there’s an Acaanan milling around down there,” Creol continued, lighting a cigarette so flat it looked like he had sat on it. “I think he’s got an over fanciful eye.”
“Not milling around; she’s buggin’ out with all her luggage!” Regan pointed with animation.
“How can you tell it’s a woman?” Creol asked as he sucked on his cigarette with trembling hands.
“Have you seen any male Acaanans lurkin’ about? It must be her!” Regan thumped his fist into the brick wall. Creol meanwhile tilted his head to vet around a multitude of robed commuters.
“I still don’t see one!” He shrugged his shoulders.
“There! It looked like she was coming back, but there goes the critter, now sneaking off for the Third Circle!” Regan was energized and rattled a gnarled finger at a tiny figure on the bridge.
“What see you Half-man?” Creol squinted. “Two pims hang in the balance.”
“How so?” the third laborer asked.
“That Acaanan’s been skulking around for a few days, spooking the clients,” Creol began. “We can’t have that, can we? The wager was two pims. I claimed I could trap and skin the rodent.”
At this, the laborer reached into his pocket and produced a small canvas pouch. Holding it like a tiny bell, he shook the article. Its dissonant rattle suggested it contained a stew of pebbles and bones.
“Acaanans are accustomed to such eerie noises in the night,” Regan explained his side of the bet. “I wagered she’d take it in stride. Hell, it was most likely a dulcet tune to her pointed ears, lulling her off to a blissful sleep. Beside, that breed’s cravenness overrides curiosity. So I bet she wouldn’t open the door. And she did
n’t!”
“That time!” Creol defended his position, sucking on the cigarette nervously. “But sooner or later, they all open it! Tonight is to be my masterful stroke. She will open up this time!”
“Curse the Acaanan, the lowest of slaves!” Regan lamented. “’Tis a mystery why Dumont supports those miscreants. She used to have puck. That a fighter’s liver should hide in her arm! What a pity!”
“So, Half-man, someone has to eradicate the Goblin’s fleas.” Creol threw his partner a sly wink.
“Of late, it has been worse.” Regan moaned. “All miserable types have swarmed our little home! We can’t let the duras savor all the critters.”
“Am I one of those types?” the Half-man asked.
“Why, no!” they both shouted in unison, each hoping to garner the Half-man’s vote for the bet’s winner.
“You’re worth your salt as a laborer!” Creol complimented. “Even if you be spotted with pepper.”
“You are a man of solemn duty!” Regan vied for Torkoth’s good favor.
“So, what say you, Half-man?” Both wanted to settle the issue.
The Half-man strained his eyes at the receding figure.
“That’s the Acaanan,” he replied, looking down toward the disappearing speck.
His version substantiated, Regan beamed with satisfaction. His smile revealed painted teeth and stained gums. Creol growled with defeat. But it wasn’t clear if his disappointment stemmed from the loss of two pims or from the fact that his appetite for the Acaanan’s blood would go unrewarded. With mild curses, he forked over the bet to his preening co-worker.
“Anyway, it’s good riddance!” Regan broadcast his own thoughts as he stowed the booty. “Those folk are always entwined in mayhem. No good ever sprang from their kind, except perhaps blood.”
“We all have a secret lurking under our skin,” the Half-man added slowly, as if his mind were elsewhere.
“Speaking of that, they say Acaanans’ bones burn for a month!” Creol mused. “Imagine the blaze if this place was filled with Acaanan skulls!”
“Her name is Lakif,” the Half-man added.
“Know you her?” Creol asked suspiciously.
“Not really.” The Half-man turned his back to the window. “Can anyone really know an Acaanan? They keep much to themselves. You’re right though, it’s good that she’s going, for she faces a long road.”
“As do we!” Creol took a hefty drag of his cigarette and flicked it out the portal. “It’s time for another load!”
As Regan pocketed his winnings he paused in thought.
“Half-man, I have a few knick-knacks ’m hankering to unload, and thought you might be interested.”
“Such as?”
“An odd assortment they be, but all rare—not to be found in any tony local shop. I bring a few with me in the rucksack.”
“I’ll take a look after Sext,” Torkoth promised and leaned into another shovel full of coal.
After a morning of backbreaking toil the Half-man returned to his quarters. Scrubbing the soot free from his right hand was no facile task. It so clogged the ravines between his scales that he was forced to use a wire brush to extricate the film. Thereafter, he gathered up his few personal belongings and left, locking the room behind.
V
The Titan
RAIN SPATTERED AGAINST THE TRAIN’S WINDOWPANES. LAKIF BLEW A SIGH OF relief. She had narrowly beaten the downpour.
The Acaanan was speeding through Grimpkin, once again baking within the Leviathan. Her course, as before, lay westbound. Her misery would be short-lived, for her destination was the next station, the Fourth Circle Station. Although it was only one stop, to have made the trek on foot would have swallowed most of the day. Despite this, under ordinary circumstances, Lakif would have preferred walking to the station. It would have saved her a beka, the cost of the ticket. These days, every coin counted. More importantly, it would have spared her the unpleasant experience, which managed to dampen even her elated spirits. But considering her ankle was in convalescence, she considered a taxing march unwise and was forced into the unsavory ride.
She wanted to clock the time between the Third and Fourth Circles. Unfortunately, her pocket watch was useless, so she had to estimate. Lakif was habitually poor at taking inventory of time’s passage. Her best estimation was that the trip took somewhere between ten and fifteen minutes. Further occupying her thoughts was the Goblin Knight; her mind was still booked at the famed inn. She couldn’t shake the guilt of duping her swordsman. The sin of her ingratitude weighed heavily on her shoulders, and the weight of that lodestone was enough to blot out the nauseating ride. She could only console herself with a common bromide: “That without remedy is without regard.”
As the passengers streamed out, Lakif noticed an umbrella that had fallen on the cabin’s floor. The forgotten article was mercilessly trampled in the mass exodus. Lakif thought twice about ignoring it. Although the rain had let up slightly, the boiling clouds promised a long day of bouts. A new umbrella would run upward of a pim. She wasn’t sure why umbrellas were inordinately expensive. Perhaps a single monopoly controlled their entire production and distribution across the district.
Therefore, she lingered near the door, waiting for that fleeting instant before the boarders surged in. When the opportunity presented itself, she swooped down and snared the hapless article, rescuing it from certain doom under a second wave of boots. She darted out, narrowly avoiding the oncoming stampede.
The Fourth Circle Station was said to have been the first of the seven constructed. Its vicinity to the Vulcan probably explained this. In accord with this distinction, the station surpassed the others in sheer splendor. Like its brothers, it was capped with a sparkling dome and floored with a rosy pink flagstone. The voussoirs rimming the archways twinkled navy blue, and the keystone at their apexes were a transparent type of stone resembling diamond. Their luster reflected the images of those walking underneath.
For untold years, there had been talk of construction of another Leviathan. This second train would span the district’s shorter north-south axis. Being the central of the Stations, the Fourth Circle was the natural point of intersection of the two lines. As a connecting juncture, the station would have to herd a significantly greater volume of traffic. But this station wasn’t larger than any of the others, so Lakif wondered if it could handle the added burden. If there were plans for a second Leviathan on the table, it was still embryonic, and not a whisper had seeped out of the conference room.
As with the other Circle Stations, a prodigious sculpture occupied its center. The work depicted a wooded scene captured in stone. The rosy marble floor sloped up to a hillock. A copse of trees crowned the knoll. Individually, the trees were not unlike the grand oak of the Goblin Knight. They clustered close together, forming an impenetrable pass. A nude baby lay just outside the grove. Overhead, a vine looped down from the foliage, dangling like a trinket over the infant. On second look, it proved to be a serpent suspended from a branch. At the base of the hillock, a jackal was crouched. Drool from its bared fangs revealed its insane hunger.
Lakif was forced to circle around the sculpture to reach the north exit. The centerpiece was not all that alarming to her. For some reason, folklore abounded with tales of infants being deserted at the edge of forests. Clearly, these babies weren’t long for this world, as was so vividly illustrated in this sculpture. But some of the myths added a wrinkle, with infants being successfully reared by wild animals and growing up to become noble savages.
A constant drum of precipitation peeled off the crystal dome. Lakif paused at the north exit. Outside, the rain fell in sheets. A chilly breeze sailed though the arch, tossing the Acaanan’s hair around. With it came a fine cloud of freezing mist.
She immediately applauded her foresight at saving the abandoned umbrella. The opened article depicted the image of an owl’s eye on its underside. Such artwork was typical. Umbrellas were generally painted with all kinds of
bestial imagery. Drawing her cloak up, she braced herself for the freezing rain.
No sooner had she cleared the exit than she ground to a halt. It seemed that every Circle Station held a wonder to bedazzle the uninitiated. The Fourth Circle Station undeniably trumped its six competitors in this regard. In the distance loomed Talos, the towering Colossus of Grimpkin. The inhospitable weather could do naught to dampen the stupendous sight. Even the Acaanan, who was by birth a distracted sort, was riveted to the imposing figure.
The megalith loomed in the offing north of the station, rising high above the surrounding edifices. The colossus was fashioned to resemble a mighty warrior. The center of his breastplate was engraved with the image of a tower. A metallic chain tasse dropped to protect his muscled thighs. Greaves covered his powerful forearms and calves.
The statue, however, was no image of an idealized fighter standing at attention. Instead, the warrior was poised in the stance of mortal combat. Both legs were widely separated, with his feet pointing in opposite directions. His torso was inclined forward as if he were lunging. The left forearm was strapped through a large round shield, which the warrior held above his head. His sword was poised over his right shoulder, readying to strike. A helmet with drawn visor obscured the myrmidon’s face. Lakif had the impression the stance was meant to depict an uphill charge. The overhead shield and doubled forward pose was designed to evade enemy missile fire.
She marveled at the sheer size of the titan. The metallic giant rose higher than any neighboring edifice. In size it probably rivaled the Efreeti’s Curse, the Fourth Circle’s Son of Man. The construct was certainly worthy of the fanfare accredited to it; it was the indomitable presence of Grimpkin’s skyline.
Of course, she had heard of the titan. The goliath was dubbed one of the Seven Wonders of the World. As such, she had previously formulated a mental image of the statue, one quite at odds with what she now witnessed. In tune with its terrific proportions and far-flung fame, she had imagined the statue would have resembled a figure standing erect and true like a noble general, with a sword at his breast and a shield at his side as he surveyed the battlefield. She would never have imagined such an embattled warrior, direly locked into mortal combat. This sorry day, however, the stout warrior faced more than an unseen foe. He was battling the bellicose weather as well.
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