Nights of Sin

by Matthew Cook

  I see rugs and carpets from every far-flung corner of the Empire, mixed with pots and vessels of ceramic, copper and brass. Women sell beads and bread and bolts of colorful, thin fabric, squatting on outspread blankets. The traditional hawker's cry rings from all around me: “Suk suk soo soo soo ... Come see my wares. Very fine! Very fine! Come see, come see, come soo. Suk suk soo."

  Closer to the bazaar's center, ringing the ancient, dry fountain known as the Sea God's Trident, food stalls send delicious and exotic smells into the air. People sit on the fountain's raised marble side, underneath the statues of mermaids and sea-horses and selkies, eating mutton skewers or fish pastries.

  Children dash around and through the stalls, roving gangs of filthy, quick-fingered urchins. As I watch, one of them, a delicate girl of no more than six, stops beside a fat house matron. Her brown eyes go wide as she strokes her dolly's tangled yarn hair. When the matron pauses to smile down at her, one of the girl's accomplices, perhaps her brother, for they share the same dark eyes, draws out a hidden knife and nicks her purse with an economic flick of his thin wrist.

  Despite myself, I have to grin at the boy's audacity and skill, even as I open my mouth and shout: “Oi! You there! Get away from that lady's skirts!"

  The children vanish, quick as a coin trick, scattering into the crowd in a cloud of mocking laughter. A moment later, the matron's outraged cry goes up, as she misses her stolen purse, but by then we are already past.

  We plunge back into the narrow byways. I see the low roof of the fletcher's shop just ahead. Before the war it must have been a small building, little better than a shack. Now fletchers and smiths toil beneath the jury-rigged awnings and scaffolds that have been erected around the building, struggling to fulfill the army's bottomless appetite for fresh ammunition. Bundles of willow branches are piled high, mixed with baskets of goose feathers. Next door, a poultry vendor sells the leftover meat for pennies to a throng of poorly dressed citizens.

  Before we reach the arrow shop, we pass an old man standing behind a simple trestle table laden with leather-bound books. Some bear tiny, hand-lettered signs. The man watches the passersby, alert as a ferret, his spectacled eyes moving over the crowd. Lia heads towards him and I follow.

  I stand behind her as she scans the hide-wrapped spines. Even though several are in languages other than Imperial, she seems to have no problem reading them. The man bows obsequiously. Even as he does, his eyes never leave his wares. Good for him.

  "It is so good to see you again, mistress,” he says in clipped tones. Lia smiles, as she always does, at his attempt to parrot the cadence of the upper classes.

  "Good to see you as well, master bookseller. I see you have new volumes. Most excellent.” The man grins back, enjoying the title and Lia's warm praise.

  "I have good news, mistress. Ah ... I have located a copy of the item you requested,” he continues, reaching under the table. His hands emerge, holding a paper-wrapped book. Lia beams as her eyes light on it, and her smile grows even wider.

  "Sir, you are a miracle worker! Where did you find it?"

  "Oh, leave a simple merchant with some secrets, I beg you,” he says, affecting modesty. The pride dancing in his eyes belies the gesture.

  "Kirin, you had just as well go,” Lia says, squeezing my hands. “I am sure listening to me haggle with the master bookseller here would not interest you. Go on and shop, if you like."

  "All right,” I say. “I'll meet you in half an hour at the bubbly pies stall?"

  She nods and leans forward, kissing my cold cheek, then turns back to the old man. They strike up a conversation about one of the books on his table and I wander off towards the arrow shop.

  I am almost to the closed front door when a movement catches my eye. A bent form, wrapped in a stained, tattered cloak, crouches at the mouth of an alley, a few doors down from the fletcher's. Something about it, perhaps the tilt of its hunched back, or its shambling gait, compels me to look closer.

  The hands and feet are wrapped in lengths of discolored fabric. They are shapeless bundles beneath the thick cloth, irregular useless lumps. The figure's face is invisible in the hood's concealing shadow. It reminds me of the lepers I occasionally see begging in the streets for coins, but smaller, more hunched and compact.

  Even as I focus my attention, the figure retreats into the depths of the alley. Its rolling, drop-shouldered gait evokes a memory; a vision of times not long past, where my own skinless, rope-muscled children came forth to do my bidding.

  No. It cannot be. In all the world, only I can call forth creatures like the sweetlings. My mistress's own summonings could not make them; her power always left the body intact and whole, if not very swift or nimble. Never before have I heard of, or read about, another such as I.

  Despite my certainty, the pull of curiosity is strong, and a moment later I find myself at the alley mouth. I kneel, examining the impression of one wrapped foot in a pile of half-frozen slush. It tells me nothing. I rise, chiding myself for my foolishness, and walk into the alley. My hand finds the hilt of the Ulean steel knife that hangs at my hip.

  The shadows between the buildings are thick and impenetrable, like drapes of black fabric, pooling against the ruins of crates and other unknown debris. “Hello? Will you please come out? I just want to talk to you for a moment. Will you speak with me?"

  A smell reaches me, riding above the wet, rotten smell of spoiled garbage. The sweet smell of attar, of a charnel house, floats above the reek of spoiled cabbage and human filth. To my wise nose, the smell is terrible and familiar, as nostalgic as a childhood song; repellent as a slap across my cheek.

  From the farthest edge of my vision, something moves in the shadows. I hear a gentle hiss, softer than a sigh, the sound pregnant with malice. Without conscious thought, I allow my inner eye to slip open.

  The alley seems to grow brighter, even as the shadows dim into a black deeper than the color between stars. I see flickers of light, the skittering glow of countless insects, burrowing and gnawing through the untidy heaps of offal. A rat prowls along one of the walls. It shines like a comet, its modest life glow steady and strong, filled with animal vitality.

  I look towards the source of the sound. I see nothing. Nothing. Just a hole in the shadows, blacker than black, darker than the absence of light. The hiss is repeated, louder and closer than before.

  I back away, slow and steady, my booted toes questing through the debris. Please, gods, do not let me trip, I ask silently, moving slowly back. The shadow does not follow. It remains where it was, hidden from my mortal and supernatural vision.

  In my belly, the blood magic slithers and stirs, uncoiling a languid tendril. It will defend me, I know, even if it must rip the very life from my assailant. I have seen it do so. It revels in such destruction.

  I am nearly to the alley mouth when I hear it: the sound of padded footfalls, shuffling through the heaped garbage. The hiss is strong and sharp this time. I sense more than see a squat shadow rushing forward. My eyes catch a glimpse of fluttering cloth, overtop the gleam of something wet and pale.

  I turn on my heel and bolt for the tenuous safety of the sunlight beyond the alley. Whatever it is, if it attacks me in the light, at least I will be able to see. Perhaps my screams will even summon help from a guard. If it is mortal, I will make it pay for assaulting me.

  I burst out into the welcoming sun, my eyes momentarily dazzled by the glare of light. A figure looms before me, half-seen. I do not have time to stop, and crash headlong into it.

  "Get back!” I gasp. The words are part threat, part warning. I grab their coat sleeve and tug them along with me as I retreat.

  "Unhand me at once!” the figure barks, pulling against my grip. The voice, soft yet commanding, penetrates my fear. It is familiar to me. I squint into the dazzle, into his face.

  It is the eyes that identify him: deep-set and intense, nestled in a web of lines, curiously old for such a young-seeming man. Just like the night I met him at Argus Ch
o's party, he wears a dark velvet coat trimmed with silver buttons atop a simple shirt of pale linen, devoid of the decorations that many of his station affect.

  "I know you,” I blurt.

  Rath Lan is his name, my sister whispers in my inner ear. You may recall you labeled him a womanizer and raconteur when you met before.

  "Kirin? Is that you?” Rath asks, no longer pulling against my grip. “Of course it's you; how could I ever forget that compelling gaze?"

  "Get away from the alley!” I say, urgently. This time he allows himself to be led away, towards the side of the fletcher's shop.

  "Whatever is the matter?” Rath asks. “Did some ruffian try to lure you into the shadows, milady? If so, I'll make him sorry he ever laid eyes upon you."

  Rath grabs the hilt of an ornate dueling sword at his hip and half-draws the blade. The thing has the unmistakable patina which only comes from regular, repeated use. Its steel blade is polished, glowing with the mellow light of a hundred conflicts.

  We watch the mouth of the alley, but see nothing, no trace of movement.

  "Perhaps they thought better of pursuit, milady,” Rath says, then louder: “I dearly hope so, for his sake. My blade has drunk deep of many a man's heart blood, so one more is no bother. Just say the word, milady, and I will cut him most deep, for your honor."

  "No, I ... that will not be necessary, good sir. Please stand down, I beg you."

  "As you wish,” Rath says, sliding his blade back into its scabbard. “But we still should be away from here. Is there someplace I can escort you?” He offers me his arm, a gallant, courtly gesture. Passers-by eye him, and me, their stares curious.

  "Thank you,” I answer, automatically, taking the proffered arm. “I was just heading to the arrow shop yonder,” I say.

  "Of course. You are an archer atop the Armitage. Shooting is your business. If you will honor me?"

  Together, we stroll the short distance to the shop door. When we get there, Rath pauses.

  "Perhaps I might accompany you?” he asks, looking deep into my eyes. “I know of a charming tea shop, just on the far side of the bazaar. They sell the most delightful black tea there, dark as sin and sweeter than a virgin's kiss. If you'll allow me, I could buy you a cup to warm your hands before your trip home..."

  I shake my head, remembering his behavior from the night of Argus Cho's party. Just as before, his overt flirtation and the annoyance it evokes wars with a flush of interest from my rebellious body.

  "I cannot, I'm afraid. I'm meeting someone. Perhaps another time,” I add, for politeness’ sake, only realizing after I speak the words that there is a faint grain of truth in them.

  "Invite them along, then. I'm sure I can convince them to brew a pot for three. Four, I suppose; my man is with me here.... Somewhere."

  "Oh?” I ask. “Is he small, wrapped in a filthy cloak?” The joke sounds strained, even to my own ears. Rath senses it too, and turns to look at me, a queer expression in his eyes.

  "No, he is quite tall, I'm sure of it, and the last I saw him he was wearing what he always does: a brown woolen cloak and boots. Are you sure you are all right, my Lady?"

  "I'm fine. Just a bit distracted is all. The man in the alley ... he frightened me."

  "Of course. Very understandable. Well, I'll be off and leave you to your shopping. If there's anything you ever need, milady, you have but to ask."

  Rath bows and brushes my knuckles with his lips. “I shall wait for your call. Until then.” He turns and strides off, and my eyes follow him until he is swallowed by the crowd.

  I find myself watching the spot where I lost sight of him for a long minute. Finally, I shake my head and turn back to the fletcher's door. The encounter in the alley has left me feeling dissatisfied, that is all. I do not need complications like Rath Lan in my life, now or ever.

  I purchase half a dozen new bow strings and a block of fresh wax, along with a spool of waxed thread. The army supplies feathers and more-or-less straight willow shafts, as well as countless iron arrow heads, but I will not trust the quartermaster to supply us with quality strings or the crucial wax which keeps them supple. Lia meets me at the bubbly pie shop, bags of fresh fruit in her hands. We take our pies, steaming in the chill air, to the nearby park along the cliffs, and eat them while we watch the enormous cranes that hang over the side.

  "They never stop,” Lia says, nibbling at her pie. She has chosen raspberry and treacle, as she always does, just like a little girl. “All day and night they labor, moving everything the City consumes. People, food, animals: all pass this way, sooner or later."

  The sight of the cranes reminds me of the near-riot that occurred the last time I was here. Unbidden, I gaze off across the lowlands to the south, just as the poor, trampled girl did. The air is clear, and I feel as if I can see forever. Late afternoon sunlight gleams from the twisting blue snake of the River Mos as it winds its way through the harvested fields below. I see villages, entire towns, far below, made smaller than a child's toy by distance.

  I wonder what she was looking for; what she saw when she gazed out across that vista. Saddened, I look away towards the monolithic rows of buildings bordering the bazaar. The sight of them sparks a new memory: that of the shadowed figure in the alley. I think of Rath kissing my hand. Of his young-old eyes and spare, thin body. I shake my head, and return to the moment.

  "When all this is over, let's go south,” I say. “Leave this place behind, and just ... walk. See the world, without fear of the Mor. Just the two of us."

  "I ... would like that,” she replies, then, more confidently, “Wherever you go, I will always follow."

  "Careful what you promise. I may hold you to that one day."

  Lia laughs, and the hesitation I thought I saw just a moment before is gone, so fast I wonder if I really saw it in the first place.

  She snuggles closer and I wrap my cloak about her, mingling our body warmth. Together, we sit and gaze off across the vast lands of the south. I resist the urge to turn and look over my shoulder, to see if a small form watches me, even now, from the shadow of a doorway or alley.

  No. There can be no sweetlings. I am the only one who can create them. I would know it if there were others.

  Together, Lia and I watch the sunset, as day turns to night.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  "Kirin ... Kirin! Liandra's great juicy tits, woman, are you listening to me?"

  I look up from my work, startled by Sergeant Cyr's shout. Bundled sheaves of willow shafts surround me, waiting for fletching. Malthus, the soldier I fought beside on my first day on the wall, sits beside me, tying goose feathers from a basket between us one byone to the newly-made arrows.

  As the fight against the Mor has lengthened, the quality of the materials has steadily diminished. Sometimes, the shafts are so badly warped that they cannot be used. Or the arrowheads are improperly greased, and have rusted badly in their cloth wrappers, useless until methodically re-sharpened. Malthus, with his careful eye and deft fingers, is one of the few I trust with the job of crafting missiles that will fly true and bite deep.

  "Sorry, sir,” I say, laying aside my work. “I was checking our ammunition. We've much to do still."

  Cyr growls an obscenity under his breath, then gestures for me to follow him before striding away. I look at Malthus and he shrugs. I stifle the urge to thank him for nothing. I rise, wincing at the stiffness in my legs and fingers.

  "Hurry up, gods damn you. I haven't got all day!” Cyr shouts from ahead. I frown as he angles towards the square bulk of the watchtower.

  Together we ascend the winding steps to the summit. On the roof, the snow has drifted into gentle mounds against the protective walls. Men bunch around fires glowing in metal braziers, their hands outstretched to capture the warmth. The sky above is featureless and gray, a smooth expanse of glowing nothing, from which the occasional dingy white snowflake drifts down.

  The men ignore me for the most part, but
one or two look up as I approach, as some always do. This time it is a pair of raw recruits, scrub-faced boys with the first scraggly attempts at beards on their cheeks. One leans towards the other as Cyr leads me towards Captain Garrett, and whispers something. The other nods.

  I push down a reflexive stab of annoyance. At least amongst the men of the unit all I have to put up with is hostility; the oafish, brash curiosity displayed by the newcomers is somehow worse, as if I am some sort of freak show curiosity on display.

  I approach the captain and salute his back as Cyr does the same. “Thank you, sergeant,” Garrett says softly, without looking away from the eyepiece of his spy glass.

  He surveys the enemy positions below the wall for several minutes, leaving us to stand in the cold. I wonder how he can stand it up here, in the constant biting wind. It is bad enough down on the battlements, but even in his heavy, purple cloak and padded mail he must be freezing.

  Finally, he takes his eye away and looks at us. I try not to frown; the captain looks terrible. His eyes are sunken, surrounded by ovals of bruised, darkened flesh. The lines beside the blade of his nose and across his uncompromising brow are deeper now, like knife wounds. His eyes are as pale and gray as ever, the irises riding on fields of bloodshot white.

  When I met him three months ago, those eyes looked out at the world with a steady, world-wise gaze. Now they smolder, chips of burning ice, filled with a terrible intensity. As he turns to us, he scratches at his scarf, pulling it down slightly, and I see the pale mass of shiny scar tissue that mars the flesh beneath his chin. His hair, iron gray before, is now a shock of ivory white.

  "Sergeant, I'd like you to take those two and get them settled,” Garrett says, nodding towards the still-whispering youths. “They say they have some experience with the hunting bow. See if they can hit the broad side of a barn, will you?"

  Captain Garrett's voice is rough and coarse, delivered barely above a whisper. I do not react; I heard that it was so from the other soldiers’ gossip. Given the extent of his injury, I know he is fortunate to be able to speak at all.