The evidence suggests otherwise.
The scrape and thud of approaching feet drags me from my thoughts. “It seems, captain, that your curiosity is about to be sated.”
“Oh, be still my aching heart.”
Quintus’s words are weary, but his tone betrays a hidden vigour. The good captain’s tightly wound. Expecting some opportunity, perhaps? More likely hoping to create one. A dangerous man, is our Quintus. Maybe more dangerous to himself than to me. Something to consider.
The footsteps approach. The warm glow of a guttering torch dances through the blindfold’s weaves. Strong hands close around my arms, their grip more forceful than necessary. My bound wrists are loosed from the wall, and they lead me away. I don’t resist. What’s the point? I’ve never sought physical confrontation. It’s so…unpredictable.
Somewhere behind me, Quintus proves less tractable. There’s a choked gasp and a scuff of boots as one of our captors goes sprawling. Then a dull thud and a heavier grunt from Quintus as retribution follows defiance. Like I said, unpredictable.
For a time, the steady footsteps are the only sounds—those, and the scrape and splash of Quintus’s heels as he’s dragged along behind. Apparently, my captors aren’t inclined to conversation. I smother the temptation to second-guess the decisions that led me here. The board is set, and the pieces begin their slow, intricate dance. That’s where my attention must lie.
There’s a creak of aged timber. New sounds wash over me. The burble of a crowd, their echoing voices thick with anticipation. Beneath it, the crackle of flames. The temperature leaps as I cross the threshold, the rush of air carrying with it the stench of sweat and stale beer.
My guide hauls me roughly to a halt and spins me around. A swell of laughter rises. The crowd’s amused. I can’t say the same for myself. Like I said before, I don’t get afraid. But on occasion, it’s an effort of will more than nature. Right now, my willpower’s dangerously close to its limits.
I suppress a flinch as cold steel slides along my temple, cutting free the blindfold. Light blazes all around me. I blink away the splotchy blue afterimages. A cheer goes up from the crowd. Nothing pleases a mob like discomfort, however trivial.
At least a hundred men and woman crowd the cavern, their raiment a jumble of leathers, furs and wool-cloth. Not for this gathering the following of fashion so beloved of the nobility. Practical garb for practical folk. Nondescript enough to not draw a constable’s eye. Dark enough to render every shadow a welcome refuge. Naturally, they’re all armed.
Most of the onlookers are gathered around the leaping bonfire set before the ramshackle wooden stage upon which I now stand. Smaller groups watch eagerly from lantern-cast shadows against the granite walls. A few paces beyond the bonfire, water laps against a shallow shore, glimmers of light dancing across the ripples like the restless faelings of romantic myth.
A caravel’s prow looms out of the shadows, its timbers as sagging and rotten as a spinster’s dreams. Only the figurehead retains any semblance of former glory. Her patrician brow lends the impression of a judge presiding over court, and a steady stare warns of an ill-fate for those who defy her will. But algae discolours her alabaster beauty, and the gilded lustre of her hair has long since faded. The irony provokes a wry smile. A forgotten figurehead for a forgotten goddess. It’s been long indeed since anyone in Tressia bent a knee to radiant Lumestra, patron of wisdom and judgement. It’ll be longer still if I have my way. Gods only bring ruin.
My amusement does not go unnoticed.
“I’m glad you approve, Lord Solomon.”
The speaker spreads his arms wide as he strides across the stage’s uneven boards a half-dozen paces in front of me. Unlike his audience, he apes the garb of his betters. The tails of an emerald jacket brush his heels, and his greying hair rests upon the collar of a silk shirt. Giack Selloni, ever the showman, ever with so little to be showy about. You can dress a wild beast in waistcoat and cuffs, you can deck it with gold and jewels—you can even teach it to turn the odd witty phrase—but a beast it remains. I should know. The self-styled corsair princeps is a creature of my own making. I oversaw the capture and execution of Selloni’s predecessor, and the three who preceded her. All died twitching on a scaffold, empty eyes staring across the seas over which they’d sought dominion. Nothing personal. The corsairs of the Outer Isles have been a power in this part of the world for centuries. I sought a leader with whom I could do business.
The search continues.
I glance at Quintus, standing a pace or so to my left. He’s in no state to crow about predicting Selloni’s involvement. His blindfold’s gone, but he’s upright only by dint of the two minders gripping his shoulders. Well, he brought it on himself. One of the minders has a fearful bruise forming on his brow. Even blindfolded, Quintus knows how to leave his mark.
Selloni steps closer, moustache twitching as he sneers. “Nothing to say? I think I’m disappointed. I’d expected a threat by now, or perhaps a heartfelt plea.” He brings his hands together, palm to palm. “You do know you’re going to die, don’t you?”
Laughter rumbles across the cavern, thunder heralding the storm yet to come. This is why Selloni will never hold the authority he longs for. Tell a man death is inevitable, and you give him power. He no longer has any reason to cooperate, and nothing to lose. He’ll drag the game out as long as he is able. Hold out the possibility of hope, and your prey trip on their own feet as they scurry to claim it.
I let my gaze drift across the group standing behind Quintus and I at the rear of the stage in front of a mildewed scarlet curtain. Selloni’s peers, each a ganglord with a stake in the city’s criminal pursuits. Turning my back on Selloni, I give them the benefit of my full attention. It’s always interesting to see who’s watching, who isn’t, and who isn’t here at all. “You really shouldn’t let your jester prattle on. He’s embarrassing you.”
Lithel Andri, current mistress of the Crowmarket, shifts uncomfortably beneath her feathered veil. The alleys and wharves are her territory, and they’re a long way off. Too many present will remember what the Crowmarket used to be—a brotherhood of “noble” thieves, labouring to feed the starving and blunt the excesses of the rich and the criminal alike. An ocean couldn’t wash away all that bad blood.
Of course, the Crowmarket of legend is long since gone. I’ve spent years pruning its ranks, winnowing out the genuinely high-minded rogues, opening up positions in the Parliament of Crows for those I can deal with. Behind every righteous soul, there’s always two or three realists eager to take their place. Now the Crowmarket is little more than an assemblage of beggars, footpads and housebreakers. The cadaverous Andri is the last of the old Parliament, but even she doesn’t lack for secrets. She’s taken plenty of lives with that stiletto of hers, and ruined many more. The hulking lad acting as her bodyguard is the son of her predecessor, dead in the squalor of Blackwater Jail ten years back. She’s never told young Balgan what she knows of the mother who betrayed him, and who delivered his father into the hands of the city guard. It’s hard to say what Balgan knows of this. There’s no reaction to my enquiring glance, but that’s to be expected. He’s mute, and dull-witted besides. Not that the dull-witted are in short supply hereabouts. But even a simpleton can be a powerful piece upon the board, if properly directed.
To Andri’s left, Natilya Eshlan favours me with her gorgon stare. Of all those present, she’s the closest I have to a rival—certainly since the passing of the late, unlamented Lord Lavirn. She specialises in fanning the fires of hedonism into vice, and profiting thereafter by keeping the flames stoked. She knows all the bloodlines carefully concealed from family trees, knows by sight the owner of every wandering hand and jealous eye. Even I don’t know how long she’s plied her trade. I’ve heard it rumoured that she’s an eternal, as ageless and bloodless as the granite walls. Possibly she is. Certainly she cannot be so young as her girlish figure implies. Her eyes are too old for that.
; Natilya has longed to get her claws into me for many years now, to learn my secret yearnings and turn them to her own ends. But there is nothing secret about my desires. I love only the Tressian Republic, freed from the tyranny of gods and magic through labours without end. Every bead of sweat I shed—every drop of blood I spill—is in her service, and no other’s.
Only the third and final worthy seems truly at home in the cavern. Niarr af Redegar casts a vast shadow. He’s a creature of the frontier, rather than Tressia’s civilised streets, and he wears his wolf pelts as trophies as much as raiment. Like the broad-bladed axe at his side, they’re warnings. I have it on good authority that he could fill entire wardrobes with the flayed skin of his rivals. Perhaps he has. A Thrakkian’s honour is every bit as tangled as his plaited beard and, like most such pretensions, a deception practiced upon oneself. Niarr would have us believe he’s a noble outlaw, fighting the underdog fight. In truth, he’s a smuggler, a braggart and an opportunist.
Still, four out of Tressia’s five underworld chiefs, and all here because of me. It’s gratifying. I wonder where the fifth is?
“You’ll not turn your back on me!” Selloni grips my shoulders and spins me around. “You’re nothing, Solomon, not any longer! This is my hour!”
He drags me to the front of the stage, giving me what he fancies is the full weight of a withering stare. Anticipation ripples through the crowd. They surge forward, desperate not to miss a moment.
I don’t flinch. I don’t attempt to pull away. Why should I? I’m a dead man, remember? What’s he going to do? Kill me twice? I’m in no hurry for him to follow through, but I may as well take what pleasures I can in the meantime.
“Your hour? Oh, I see. This is all your idea? Don’t tell me they’re so desperate as to let you take my place?”
All of a sudden, I’m falling back across the stage, propelled by Selloni’s angry shove. With my hands still tied, I’ve no means of fighting for balance. I lose my footing and fall. The impact shivers my elbow, and drives the breath from my body. Selloni leans over me, eyes shining.
“Why not?” he hisses. “In five years, you’ve shown us how much stronger we are together than apart. But you’re not one of us. We’ve always been your toys…” He flings a hand towards the curtain and the unconscious Quintus. “…offered up to the city guard when it suits your purposes, so you can climb the Council’s ranks. No more. You hear me? No. More.”
I can’t argue with his logic. He’s right. I’ve done all that and more. I’ve no interest in letting thieves and outlaws flourish in my city, or in the Republic at large. Selloni and his newfound allies were only ever a means to an end. Playing pieces traded for advantage. Before I took an interest, they were tearing each other apart, and the city alongside. I couldn’t allow that. Not my city. So I took over. It was only ever a temporary measure. I’ve more important things to do than administrate a nest of vermin. Not that there’s any point in saying so.
Finally, I haul myself into a sitting position. “Selloni? You’re a fool.”
He laughs off the insult, and slams a boot into my gut. I hear the crack of my head bouncing off timber before I feel it. For the second time in as many minutes, I’m fighting for breath, and this time the room’s spinning like a child’s top. I’m not even halfway recovered when Selloni kneels beside me, the point of his dagger pressed against my throat. There’s a mad gleam in his eyes. Even if I were inclined to beg, it wouldn’t do any good. I’ve pushed him too far for that.
Heavy footfalls thump across the stage. “No! He’s mine. As agreed.” Niarr’s bellow rumbles like mountains grinding together.
Selloni rises to his feet in a swirl of emerald velvet, a little of the madness fading from his eyes. “Of course. As agreed.” He sheathes the dagger with a flourish and withdraws to the front of the stage, but he’s fooling no one. Without Niarr’s intercession, things would have grown a great deal more interesting. Not that I’ve any reason to celebrate. I know exactly how Selloni won the Thrakkian to his cause.
Niarr’s meaty hand clamps around my throat and hauls me aloft. He’s a good head taller than I. My feet don’t even reach the floor. The stench of his furs is overwhelming. Or perhaps it’s not the furs. Some Thrakkians have a profound aversion to bathing—some superstition about a long-vanished nymph goddess, if memory serves. I imagine every time Niarr passes a river, the fish downstream sigh with relief.
“For three years now, I’ve sworn your death. For Ana.”
It’s not something I’m proud of. Niarr resisted my approaches for the longest time, even when I threatened to have his beloved daughter killed inch by inch. When he refused? Well, I didn’t have a choice, did I? Like I said, I’m not proud of it, but necessity must win out. Once set, the rules of the game must be observed.
Do I feel remorse for the death of Ana afa Niarr? Of course not. That particular apple was as rotten as the tree from which it fell. Not that it matters. Ana could have been the most virtuous of souls and it would have changed nothing. She mattered only as a gaming piece, in life and in death. Still does, as she’s now the token with which Selloni bought Niarr’s loyalty. It’s something of a surprise. After all, Niarr has another daughter upon whom he dotes just as much. He must be very certain of today’s outcome.
Niarr’s grip tightens. I can’t tell whether he intends to choke me, snap my neck, or both at once. The crowd cheers. They don’t care. They want blood.
“That’s the trouble with the theatre,” rumbles Quintus, blinking away his unwanted nap. “I always fall asleep before the finale.” He clears his throat. “You do know you’re all under arrest?” Even pinned by his minders, he manages a solemn dignity that Selloni and his peers will never master. He’s barely forty, but the manner of a disappointed patriarch suits him better than a man of twice his years.
Selloni roars with laughter, and the crowd join in. “I doubt that, captain.” Selloni waves a graceful hand towards the curtain. “Mistress Andri claims your hide. The Parliament of Crows are inundated with petitions. The people want justice for sons and daughters led to their deaths under your command. Your head will go to the Roost, and your bones scattered across the city for the rats to gnaw upon.”
“Aye, we’ll see about that.” Quintus’s tone remains defiant, but his posture wilts, just a little. It’s not fear. I can practically see the ghosts of the dead swirling about him. A guilty conscience is the mark of a good man. It’s also the prerogative of a fool, if the distinction can be made. He did what had to be done. That should be an end of it. The living are burden enough; let the dead remember themselves.
Yet there’s something in Quintus’s eyes. Not fear. Not remorse. Not even defiance. Expectation. Even dangling from Niarr’s grip, it takes me aback. Does he know? It doesn’t seem possible, but I’m already suspecting that Quintus is not someone to underestimate. I catch his gaze, and the lack of acknowledgement is all the acknowledgement I need. Well, well.
The chant begins as a murmur, soon swelling to a hollow roar. Kill them! Kill them! Kill them! The cry echoes around the cavern, as rhythmic as a heartbeat. Selloni, once again revelling in the role of showman, offers a deep bow to the braying masses. It’s a safe audience for him, eager to cheer him on. Most are his crewers, or at least his dockside fences and informants. This cavern is one of his favourite nests.
Of course I know where I am. I’ve always known.
I twist just enough in Niarr’s grasp to stare at the new owner of Quintus’s hide. Lithel Andri’s eyes are fixed on a knothole in the planking. She has no stomach for this. The way this gathering’s going, that’ll get her killed sooner rather than later. There’s no honour amongst thieves, whatever people say. There’s only fear, and the will to do what must be done. I’m Niarr’s price. Quintus is Andri’s. And what of Natilya Eshlan and her ageless stare? The answer comes easily enough. Though I doubt Selloni knows it, she’ll be the true power, whispering, manipulating. Selloni seeks a throne, but all he’
s really done is taken his leash from one master and given it to another.
Ambitious fools never last.
Four ganglords, seeking profit by my death. But where is the fifth? The answer comes just as Niarr renews his assault on my abused neck.
A hooded figure emerges from the crowd without fanfare, but the chanting dies with its approach. Crimson robes gleam like blood in the firelight. The newcomer is alone, but from the stumbled steps and widening eyes amongst the audience, you’d think there were dozens. Niarr shoves me back across the stage, into the waiting arms of the minder who led me from the cells, and places a hand to his axe. Natilya goes pale as the corpse she may or may not be. Lithel Andri takes a half-step back, then recovers herself, doubtless hoping no one notices. Quintus watches impassively, even as one of his minders makes the sign of the rose to ward off evil. And Selloni, predictably, decides to brazen things out.
“You’re not welcome here.”
The figure bows low before the stage, black-gloved hands spread wide. “I come as an emissary.”
It’s a pleasant voice, as far as these things go. It possesses a strange timbre, almost metallic, not readily identifiable as male or female. The shapelessness of the robes adds to the ambiguity. They hang unevenly, and puddle on the ground like wax from a candle lit too long.
“I’ve no words for your mistress.” Selloni’s tone grows firmer, more confident.
The emissary straightens and climbs the creaking wooden stairs. No one bars its way. Doubtless they’re recalling the rumours they’ve heard of Tressia’s fifth and newest criminal power. She’s called many things. The Red Lady. Mistress Arlia. In the wall-ward slums, they name her Baszoria, after the fabled witch who bathed in fresh blood under each new moon. None of these are her real name, of course. They’re just words to lend a little shape, to clothe the unknown. An identity for the fear she works so hard to propagate. Magic may have passed into legend hereabouts, but the dread of it remains. She understands this.
Evil is a Matter of Perspective: An Anthology of Antagonists Page 34