by Will Panzo
“I see,” Spider said. A testing, then. That’s what this was although he could only guess at what weakness the red-haired man sought to reveal.
“So now you know something of me. Something you didn’t know until it was offered. I would appreciate if you returned the gesture. I have told you why I was sent here. Told it truthfully. I wonder the same of you.”
“I came here to train, to learn to be the best spellcaster I could be.”
The red-haired man shook his head. “No, that’s not quite right. Certainly it’s true you came here to train. But that’s not the whole of the truth.”
Spider turned from the red-haired man. He looked to the high dais, where the Masters sat in conversation. Had one of them been watching?
“Tell me.” The words seemed to come from the shadows themselves although the dark spoke with the voice of the red-haired man.
The queer sensation from the beach worked its way over Spider’s body again. He grew light-headed. Gripping the edge of the table to steady himself, he leaned forward, his face inches from the red-haired man’s.
“I was weak before,” he whispered. “I came here to grow strong.”
“Why?”
“I have promises to keep.”
“You guard your words carefully, boy.”
“A skill I learned here.”
The red-haired man nodded. “I see. Let us return to safer discussions, then.”
“What do you wish to discuss?”
“Dungeons.” The red-haired man set down his horn. He fumbled in the dark for his ebon pipe, then brought it to his lips and took a long pull. “You’ve said you know little of dungeons. I myself know a bit. Many years ago, a time so far gone it might well have been a different life, I was acquainted with a man who knew much of them. A tomb robber, he was familiar with the golden age of dungeoneering, that time in antiquity when the great empires were being birthed, and adventurers were looting crypts dug by the primordial ancestors of man. His obsession in life was a particular kind of dungeon and the particular kind of men who would seek to explore it.”
“I do not know the different types of dungeons.”
“For the sake of simplicity, let us divide them into two groups. True dungeons and false dungeons. A true dungeon is one that houses traps and monsters. And buried deep in such a dungeon is treasure. Let us say, for the sake of argument, that a man doesn’t know the nature of the treasure hidden in a true dungeon, but he does know treasure lies there, and so he braves many perils to reach it. If he survives the dungeon and retrieves the treasure, he has enriched his life, earned himself gold and jewels, exotic artifacts, maybe even renown. If he’s lucky, the riches he plunders will keep him for all his days, and he need never work again. If he’s less lucky, then maybe he finds another dungeon and attempts to pillage its treasures, continuing on in this manner until he no longer needs treasure or until he succumbs to a dungeon. Are you following me, boy?”
“I am.”
“I’m talking of dungeons because there are things we cannot say frankly, you and I.”
“Of course.”
“The second kind of dungeon is a false dungeon. By false dungeon, I do not mean that it stands aboveground where a true dungeon lies under the earth. I refer to it as a false dungeon because it lacks the qualities of a true dungeon. It has some elements of a true dungeon, for sure. It has traps and monsters. But the thing it lacks, the thing that is missing and will forever prevent it from being a true dungeon is treasure.
“A man enters a false dungeon for many reasons. Maybe he suspects it houses treasure, or maybe he enters by mistake. Every level that he descends, he is diminished by what he experiences, never enriched. The dungeon traps him, wounds him, curses him.” Here, the red-haired man clenched and unclenched his fists. He breathed deep. “Yet even though the dungeon takes everything from him and gives nothing in return, still the man presses on. The dungeon requires that he compromise his morality at every turn. He wakes the dead, destroys ancient guardians, undoes arcane magic meant to keep evil from entering the world. Nothing will deter him. Can you picture such a place, boy?”
“I can.”
“The question I have for you then, indeed the reason I came all this way, is to ask why? Why would a man do such a thing?”
“Madness.”
“Yes,” the red-haired man said. “Madness would be one reason. But there are others. Obsession. Curiosity. The idea that if you leave before your task is finished, you will be haunted forever by what you failed to see. That false dungeon, still unconquered, will haunt your dreams. Do you understand this, boy?”
“I do.”
“Could you picture yourself in such a place?”
“I don’t know.”
“There are some who would say you’ve endured such a place these last eight years. That since stepping foot on the Isle of Twelve, you have walked a haunted path. A path that, judging by those who have walked it before you, is destined to end in death and ruin. Do you see it that way?”
“I don’t.”
The red-haired man shrugged. “I’m an old man. I’ve had too much to drink and too much to smoke. Perhaps I no longer see things truly.”
“Why did you come here?” Spider asked.
“I told you, I was paid to come here.”
“I thought we were being truthful with one another.”
The red-haired man grinned again, a terrible sight. “My employers sent me to find them a weapon. But I myself am searching for something else.”
“What then?”
“A man unafraid to walk the road to hell.”
“You think I’m such a man.”
“I know it. I can see it in you, could see it from the moment we met. And I believe you’ve seen it in yourself.”
“So you intend to buy my contract?”
“That’s exactly right. I have in my possession fifty bars of platinum, given to me by my employers, enough to purchase your contract for a year. In the morning, I’m going to speak with your Masters to arrange the deal. By tomorrow night, you’ll be on a ship with me for passage back to the Antiochi mainland. In five days’ time, that ship will dock at Astrium, but you won’t be on it.”
“Where am I going?”
“That’s your business. For my part, I will tell my employers that you killed half the crew, subdued me, and commandeered the vessel. You had us put you ashore on the mainland halfway to Borachud.”
“And then what will happen?”
“My employers will hunt you. They’ll notify your Masters of what you did, and your Masters will hunt you. The price on your head will attract bounty hunters from the far corners of the world. But you will be free.”
“Why would you do this?”
“I told you already. I have need of a man willing to walk the road to hell. I believe you are that man, but you don’t know it. This will prove it to you.”
“What if you’re wrong? What if I return to the Isle and tell my Masters of your ploy? You’ll be a dead man then.”
“I’ve been one before. That fate doesn’t scare me.” The red-haired man laughed deep in his throat. “If you return to the Isle, then you’re not the man I thought you were. I will have wasted some time and some effort and made a powerful enemy or two, but I will have sussed out your true nature, and so will have accomplished some small part of my goal.” The red-haired man paused. “But we both know you won’t be returning.”
“And what if I don’t return? I’ll still be gone. You say you have need of a cursed man, but we’ll never see each other again.”
“I’ll find you, boy. That thing gnawing inside you, I know it well. It has a tremendous appetite, and it can only be sated with blood and fire. A man of your skills is liable to leave a great trail of ruin trying to feed it.”
2
The storm began at sunu
p, a heavy rain accompanied by a few rumbling reports of thunder. Cassius sat at the window in his room and breathed the warm, wet air. Through the haze, he watched the city. The sun rose red-orange, the color of heated metal, and the rainwater warmed to mist, and for a moment, the city appeared to be built on clouds, like some mythic land lost since antiquity.
He pictured himself moving through that mist, a hero come to his place of reckoning. He was clad in gleaming bronze, like an ancient Akhaian warrior, Kaliomedes, perhaps, or maybe Great Hippomedon, with a horsehair helm and a heavy ash spear. He dreamed himself tall and strong, with powerful limbs and a full beard, flowing hair, skin tanned by a golden sun.
Something waited for him in the mist. A terrible beast. When he squinted, he could just discern its shape moving through the haze. Massive, writhing, many-headed. A hydra.
He hunted the beast, stalked it through the fog, up wide avenues paved with smooth marble, across the steps of an opulent temple whose columns hid the ivory-fleshed statues of forgotten gods. As he closed in for the kill, the mist parted, and the beast caught sight of him.
The beast reared, three heads hissing, and Cassius raised his spear and loosed a champion’s roar and the beast charged forward.
“Cassius,” the barkeep shouted.
Cassius blinked. The sound of his own name ended his daydream and made him aware of a dull ache throbbing behind his eyes. He rubbed his temples and rose from the stool. He headed downstairs to answer the call.
The pain behind Cassius’s eyes had subsided by the time the barkeep called him for breakfast, but at the table, he was light-headed. The barkeep had fixed a meal of fried eggs and toasted bread, a slice each of pork.
“What did you think of Lowtown?”
“Not as friendly as I’d hoped.” Cassius’s ears were ringing. He rubbed his temples. His nose began to bleed.
“Trouble sleeping?” Lucian asked.
Cassius shut his eyes against the pain. When he opened them again, he saw the ceiling and a dark shape visible in his periphery. Squinting, he recognized this as the barkeep’s face. His mouth was moving, but Cassius could not hear him for the ringing in his ears.
He felt the barkeep’s rough hand under his head, then he was being lifted into a sitting position from the floor and propped against a stool.
“—hear me, boy. Just nod.” The barkeep inspected Cassius’s pupils. “Never seen a thing like that before. You were sitting there, then you fell over.”
“It’s okay,” Cassius said, his voice ragged. He wiped his face, found it damp with sweat. “I’m okay.”
“You call that okay?” Lucian slapped Cassius on one cheek, then the other.
Cassius recoiled, shoved the barkeep.
“I get fits.” Cassius’s hands were numb. He clenched and unclenched them, trying to work sensation back into his fingers. “I’ve got the falling-down sickness.”
“Does that happen often?”
“Only when I cast spells,” Cassius said.
“I’ve never known a spellcaster to do that.” Lucian eased back onto his haunches. He reached up to the bar and brought down his cup of wine and took a deep swallow and offered the cup to Cassius, who declined.
“I’m touched.” Cassius struggled to his feet. His every movement seemed a half second slow, as though his limbs were delayed in answering his will.
“What does that mean?”
“It’s a rare condition. If one in every ten thousand is born with the ability to work the runes, then one spellcaster in every ten thousand is born touched.”
“So you’re the weirdest of the weird. Congratulations. What does that have to do with your collapsing in the middle of my damn bar?”
“Spellcasters have limits to the amount of energy they can draw on to fuel their spells.” Cassius slumped onto his stool. “Different spells require different levels of power. Think of it like lamp oil. A thimbleful of oil will fuel a small flame. A bucketful could start a fire that would burn this bar to the ground.”
Lucian snorted. “You’d be doing me a favor.”
“But there’s nothing you can do to change your limit. Train for hours studying runes and casting, and still you won’t be able to draw beyond your capacity. It’s fixed at birth, like your eye color.”
“So some are more powerful than others. That’s the way of the world. You haven’t told me anything I don’t know, boy. What does this have to do with you?”
“I have no limit to what I can draw.”
“That must come in handy.”
“At times,” Cassius said. “Except that my body, any body, can handle only so much of the rune energies. And drawing on more than I can handle will kill me.”
“So the fits come when you draw more than your body can handle but less than enough to kill you?” The barkeep whistled. “Sounds like you’re screwed, boy. I suggest you find another line of work.”
“It’s the only work for me.” Cassius forked his food around his plate, then pushed the plate away. He drained a cup of light, dry wine in a single gulp.
“I’ve got three words for you. Learn a goddamn trade. I’ve got a first cousin who was dropped on his head as a baby. About as smart as a poorly trained dog. The bastard’s a cobbler now. And making good money doing it.”
“I’m no cobbler.”
• • •
A long awning shaded the steps of the ivory merchant’s shop, and under this awning, a shirtless man rested on a stool. He wore loose green pants rolled to his knees, and a cudgel lay in his lap.
“I’m looking for someone,” Cassius said.
“Well, I’m not him. So piss off.” The man yawned and resettled himself on his stool. He had a harsh red tan, and his chest and arms were flabby, his belly marred with stretch marks.
Cassius stood staring at him.
“Is there going to be a problem, kid?” the shirtless man asked.
Cassius opened his cloak and the shirtless man caught sight of the gauntlets at Cassius’s waist. He sat forward, his gut sinking to rest between his upper thighs.
“I’m just looking for a friend, not trouble,” Cassius said. “Her name is Sulla.”
“Wait here.” The shirtless man stood and entered the storefront. A few minutes later, Sulla emerged from the shop.
“How’d you find me?” She stood on the top step, her hands behind her back.
“Spread a few coins around, and you can find anyone in this town,” Cassius said. “I’ve got your money from yesterday. Your commission.”
“Hand it over.” She looked past Cassius, avoiding eye contact.
“Can we go inside?” Cassius spread his arms wide, inviting her to take in the entirety of the Market. “I’d hate to do this in the open, on the street.”
“The street is where I handle my business.”
“And you don’t mind who overhears?”
Sulla surveyed the busy merchant stalls that littered the square, the crowd of passersby.
“Follow me,” she said.
They walked behind the store to a cramped alley. A young boy at the far side of the lane was kneeling to lace his sandal.
“Spare some change for a meal?” the boy called.
“Leave us,” Sulla shouted, “before I club you to death and sell the corpse to a hungry Jutlander.”
The boy ran.
“I’ll take my money now.” Sulla spun on Cassius, a pig-iron dirk clutched in her fist and the tip of the dirk pointed at his face.
He didn’t doubt her resolve. She’d kill him without hesitation if she thought it necessary. But he was still alive, and that meant she hadn’t made up her mind quite yet.
“I’d make a move for my coin purse if I didn’t think it would cost me an eye.”
Sulla snatched the front of his tunic, pressed the dirk into the soft flesh under his chin.
“Don’t mock me,” she said.
Cassius lowered his hands. “I’m sorry.”
“You could have gotten me killed yesterday. I was doing you a favor. I was trying to protect you. And you used me. Is that the kind of person you are?”
Her anger was plain, but when he looked close, he saw fear in her as well. It was measured, controlled, only hinted at by a faint quiver in her voice, like a bowstring drawn overtight. A subtle sign that someone unacquainted with fear might never notice. But Cassius was not such a person.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated, his voice soft, injured. “Things got out of hand yesterday. That wasn’t how I planned it.”
“Liar. I saw the look on your face. You were there to cause trouble.”
“I was.”
“You were there to kill Junius.”
“No.”
“I saw—”
“I didn’t want that,” he shouted. His voice echoed in the alley, then the alley fell silent. “And to answer your question, I’m not the kind of person to use someone and throw them away. I looked for you in the crowd. You must have slipped away after the finish. I wouldn’t have left you. I don’t leave friends behind.”
“We’re not friends, Cassius.”
“What are we then?”
“Business associates.”
“Well, I have a business proposition,” he said. “But I don’t negotiate at knifepoint.”
Sulla lowered the dirk.
“For yesterday.” Cassius removed two silver pieces from his coin purse and held them up between his face and Sulla’s face. She released his tunic and snatched the coins with her free hand.
“I don’t want to work with you,” she said. “You’re bad for business. You walked into one of Boss Piso’s gambling halls and killed his man in cold blood. And I was your damned escort.”
Cassius shrugged. “You can smooth that over. Spellcasters fight. It’s in their nature. Piso’s lost men before. Loses men every day, I’d imagine.”
“Not in one of his own houses. Not at the hands of some stranger who wanders in off the street.”