The Burning Isle

by Will Panzo

  Olivetto helped settle the beggar comfortably, then took the man’s hand and ran it through the water of the fountain so he knew where to drink. He offered one last prayer and then he left the man.

  When he returned to the room, Master Keno was out on business, and Alaric was sleeping. Olivetto closed the door gently behind him, taking care to make as little noise as possible, but still Alaric woke. The Isle cultivated light sleepers.

  “Who is it?” Alaric shouted. He sprang up in bed and snatched the silk veil from off his face, squinting at Olivetto until he recognized the boy in the dark. “Just you, boy? Keep it down.”

  “Of course,” the boy said. He undressed and set aside his robes. He retrieved the silk square from his pocket and settled onto the floor, lying on his side as the pain in his back was still too great to lie flat.

  “Where have you been all night anyway?”

  “There’s an emerald fountain near the city gate. They say it helps keep away the Weeping Sickness.”

  “How does it do that?”

  “You dip a cloth in the fountain and sleep with it over your face. It keeps you from breathing foul dust and air.”

  “You went there to wet your own cloth and didn’t think to take mine as well? You selfish cur. You deserve to catch sick and die.” Alaric held out his hand. “Give it here.”

  Olivetto hesitated.

  “Give it now, or I’ll fetch the lash again.”

  Olivetto handed over the cloth. Alaric took the square with a sneer. He unfurled it and lay back in bed and placed the cloth over his face.

  “Cool and damp,” he said smugly. “I’ll sleep well with this tonight.”

  8

  Cassius passed the night in the hole and left the bar at dawn. Outside, he watched the sun rise, the horizon melting from pink to warm gold. He thought about leaving now, and he wondered what he hoped to save by leaving and he wondered what he would lose. It seemed immeasurable in any real way.

  His work had driven him for so long, he was unsure life could exist apart from it. For all his days, he had strived to grow stronger, to protect himself where others had failed, to find solid footing in an unstable world. But that had changed when he discovered Attus.

  The graybeards in Philosopher’s Square had taught him of Attus, the great warrior who had thrown off the yoke of Fathalan slavehood and carved a nation out of the lost and wandering tribes of the Antiochi plain. Attus who had sparked the fires of revolution, fed those fires until they grew to uncontrollable flames, and in the process earned immortality.

  After learning of Attus, Cassius had found a new mission in life. He would grow strong that he might spark a fire of his own. He would see tyrants brought low, would see a great and proud people restored to their glory, would follow Attus’s footsteps into immortality.

  Or so he had dreamed. The reality of Scipio did not match his dreams, though. The mud and the grime. The savagery and greed. The complacency. How could he hope to overcome it all? At best, he did not know. At worst, he thought the task impossible.

  The question that remained was whether his life was worth living without this work, without this dream, or if losing it would burden him for all his days, and at death, he would know his accounts stood imbalanced and, knowing this, would die a man cheated by his own hand.

  His palm began to ache. He picked at the loose scab absently. Blood ran down his hand, and he lifted his hand to his lips and swore an oath on his own blood.

  At sunup, the Grand Market was mostly empty but for Piso’s men guarding the main avenues south, Cinna’s men guarding the main avenues north, and the legionnaires stationed at the council hall. Here and there, a merchant was erecting his cover or laying out his carpet.

  Cassius cut across the square. He passed into an alleyway and walked south through the network of narrow lanes, moving in the company of stray dogs.

  He emerged on a Lowtown road that was unpaved and strewn with trash. Melon rinds, offal, scraps of cloth, rotted lettuce, chicken bones. Crowds of Native children huddled seminaked in the doorframes of steaming shacks. If they were young, they stared out at him openly, and if they were older, they stared and tried to appear as though they were not staring, employing a sidelong glance with lowered head that was commonplace in Scipio.

  He made his way through an avenue of glassblowers and witnessed their craftsmanship and compared it to his own work, which he knew was never beautiful, and he wondered which would last the longer, their glass or his orchestration, to which he had not yet put a name.

  He caught sight of his reflection in a polished mirror and saw himself as others saw him, short and thin, unshaved, covered in a filthy cloak and an oversized tunic, with blackened eyes that were turning a green-yellow at the edges of the bruise. For all the damage, his face still looked soft.

  He was harder on the inside than he looked. He was certain of that, had proven it time and again on the Isle. He hoped he was hard enough.

  He made his way deeper into Lowtown, and now he could hear the docks in the near distance, the dockworkers shouting orders. He heard birdcalls and the snap of sails in sea wind.

  He reached a dirt plaza built on the intersection of three unpaved lanes and here was a tall, mudbrick-and-wood building. On the opposite side of the plaza were colorful huts, their garish paint peeling to reveal wood the color of sun-bleached bone. The boy and the cart were nearby, in the shade of an alley. The boy sat with his feet dangling off the cart and pretending to sleep.

  Cassius approached the cart and made a clicking noise with his tongue. The boy snapped awake. Cassius palmed a coin into his hand.

  Across the lane, a half dozen men were engaged in a dice game. Nearby, a pair of watchmen dressed in leather armor were sharing snuff and eyeing Cassius.

  Cassius moved aside the bundles of firewood in the cart and threw off the blanket to reveal the one-eyed man, Servilius, lying naked and unconscious, his mouth open. Cassius pulled him off the cart and lifted him from under the armpits. The man was a head taller than Cassius and when Cassius walked, the man’s feet dragged the ground.

  The building was five stories tall, with a plastered facade painted salmon. Cassius knocked at the door, and there was no response. He banged again, louder this time, and shouted for the master of the house. He heard the sound of wagon wheels behind him, and he glanced in time to see the muscular boy pushing his cart out of the plaza at a run. The door opened, and a squat man with a drooping mustache stood in the entranceway.

  “Out of the way,” Cassius shouted.

  He shouldered inside, and the man with the mustache backed away and stared dumbly. Cassius eased the one-eyed man to the floor.

  “Get a healer,” Cassius called.

  The man with the mustache ran off, and Cassius could hear his cries for help in the still house.

  The front room was large, furnished with a half dozen long tables and benches. There was a tall counter, the kind used in chow lines, and on the front wall a mural of an ivory-colored man, the traditional Antiochi figure of Death, leading a line of people to the gates beyond the veil.

  Cassius took a seat at one of the benches. The man with the mustache returned, and behind him scurried a fat, old man. They approached Servilius cautiously, as though he were a rat they had happened upon in the pantry. The fat man kneeled and pressed his ear to the one-eyed man’s chest. He felt for his pulse.

  The room filled quickly. A dozen men whispering as the fat one set about his work.

  “Where’d you find Servilius, stranger?”

  “I seen that little bastard before. I know I have.”

  “Which whorehouse you visit?”

  “You play cards down at the Chum Bucket?”

  “He’s one of Cinna’s.”

  The room fell silent.

  “He’s the one killed Junius,” the same man called.

  C
assius rose and reached to his waist, taking care to keep his cloak still, hands hovering near his gauntlets.

  “I know it. Little guy. I remember. He’s all bruised up now, but I remember.”

  “Is that true, boy?” another man called. “Speak, damn you.”

  “Enough.”

  The crowd parted as a massive figure emerged from the hall. He stood six and a half feet tall, with powerful legs and a broad chest. His head was shaved, and he had wide cheeks, hazel eyes, skin the color of pistachio shells. His shoulders were knotted with muscles, and he had three diagonal slashes branded into his left bicep. The short sword tucked into his hide belt seemed a knife for the size of him.

  He approached the one-eyed man, and the crowd parted. His steps were loud on the wood floor.

  “How is he?” the tall man asked.

  “Alive,” the fat one said. “Breathing. But barely.”

  “What’s wrong with him?” The tall man turned to Cassius.

  “He’s drugged,” Cassius said. “And he’ll be dead within the day if you don’t get him the proper medicine.”

  The tall man spat at Cassius. He made to step forward, and Cassius lifted his cloak with a flourish, and at sight of the gauntlets, the tall man checked his advance.

  “Look around you, boy,” the tall man said through gritted teeth. “You’re outnumbered.”

  “I am,” Cassius said. “But I’ll be sure to start my killing with you.”

  “If he dies, you won’t make it out of here.”

  “I can save him,” Cassius said.

  “Then you better get to work.”

  “I want to see Piso first.”

  • • •

  “You look like hell, boy.”

  Gnaeus Piso was square-jawed, with thick gray hair that he wore cropped short and slicked with lard. He was doughy, with big hands and a high, firm gut. He smelled strongly of musk. A massive burn covered the right half of his face, from his forehead to his neck, the scar tissue an angry pink.

  “It’s been a rough week,” Cassius said.

  Piso sat behind a large, oak desk. The room smelled of the same musk as the man himself. Maps hung tacked to the walls, and there were shelves set with odd trophies, nicked half helms, a tiger pelt, ornate Fathalan fighter’s robes now torn and bloodied. On a high shelf sat a clear jar filled with dark water within which floated a human head, the head with two holes where its eyes should be.

  “What are you?” Piso asked.

  “How do you mean?”

  “You don’t look Antiochi. Not full Antiochi anyway.” Piso was missing his right ear. His right eye was barely visible under its drooping lid, and the corner of his mouth curled permanently in a demented smirk.

  “I am.”

  “You sure you’re not some mongrel? Maybe your mother got drunk, rutted with some Fathalan, huh? Or a big, black Shonite maybe? I was in the legion, son. Fought those black bastards for ten years. Seen with my own eyes, daughters of the Republic swoon at the sight of those animals. Nipples hard as diamonds with thoughts of . . .”

  Cassius looked away.

  Piso laughed. “Oh does that offend you, son?”

  “I’m not your son.”

  “What?”

  “You called me son,” Cassius said. “I’m not your son. And that’s the last I’ll hear from you on the subject of my mother.”

  “See, I like that.” Piso shook a finger at Cassius. “Shows you have honor. Back in my day, if a man challenged your blood, then you fought that man. Showed him your worth.”

  “And today?”

  “Today, few boys are built that way. But I half suspect that if I’d continued down that path for two sentences longer, you’d have jumped over this desk at me.” Piso smiled. “Or maybe summoned a wolf to do the jumping for you.”

  Cassius stared at Piso’s face, appraising the burn openly. The skin was like dripping candle wax, and a small pool of spittle collected in the corner of his lip. Piso noticed Cassius staring but did not seem to mind. He had been a handsome man before the injury but not a vain one.

  The sight of the burned skin unsettled Cassius, a reminder of the fate that might await him should his fire ward ever slip.

  “It was one of your kind give me this.” Piso motioned toward the side of his face.

  “A killer.”

  “That’s right. Back in the army. You ever served in the legion?”

  “No.”

  “Soldiers hate killers. You know that? It’s one thing to try sticking a sword in a man’s belly, that’s just honest work. But it’s another thing to burn someone alive. Besides which, every killer in the world is protected from fire, so he doesn’t share the risk a common soldier does.”

  “Fire wards don’t offer total protection,” Cassius said. “Most killers die by fire themselves.”

  “Good is what I say to that. Me, I’m a soldier at heart. Can’t stand you goddamned finger wavers.”

  “That doesn’t mean you don’t need us.”

  “We’ll see about that.” Piso smoothed his black tunic, his motions direct, purposeful. “What happened that day with Junius?”

  “He attacked me.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Who can tell? Half the witnesses were probably drunk. So what the hell is the difference, right? Except here you are in my house. In front of my face.” Piso slapped his large hand onto the desk. “Now I’ve got to consider you. And what to do with you.”

  “You should hire me on immediately,” Cassius said. “I think that’s clear.”

  “Why would I do something like that?”

  “Because you know how good I am.”

  “And what of my men? If I hired on the man who killed their brother, I’d have a goddamn riot on my hands.”

  “Was Junius that beloved?” Cassius asked.

  “I liked him well enough.”

  “He was a fool. He attacked someone he didn’t know, walked straight into a spell trap. He was overconfident, and it cost him his life. On the mainland, a half dozen killers die that way in every city every day. His death isn’t a tragedy. It’s a cliché.”

  “What of your debt to me?”

  “Those gauntlets were mine by right of combat.”

  “I don’t give a damn about the gauntlets.” Piso smiled, the look full of menace. He wiped a string of drool from his burned lips with the back of his hand. “What of the blood debt? You took my man from me.”

  “And I gave another back. Now that doesn’t exactly make us even, but the way I figure, this is about as square as you and I are ever going to get.”

  “And what happened to Servilius?”

  “Cinna had him kidnapped.”

  “By you?”

  “No, but I knew of it. And I brought him back to you at great risk to myself.”

  “Why?”

  “To prove my intentions.” Cassius paused, watched as the muscles of Piso’s face twitched unconsciously. “I want to serve you now.”

  Piso breathed loudly through his nose, like some snouted beast. “How could I trust you? You worked for Cinna.”

  “You trust a yellow to fight alongside your men, but you wouldn’t trust me?”

  “You mean Hoka?”

  “The tall one.”

  “He’s only half savage.” Piso stood from his desk. He walked to the far wall, where a weapon rack hung. He lifted a scimitar from the rack, its steel polished to a shine, its pommel set with a massive pearl. “And I only halfway trust him. But at least he never worked for Cinna.”

  “Cinna’s a fat, effete fool. I don’t work for him anymore.”

  “Why?” Piso twirled the blade. It whistled as it sliced through air.

  “Because there’s a war coming. And I want to be on the winning side. Cinna’s a great whoremaster. But he’s no general.
”

  “What makes you think there’s a war coming?”

  “Look around you,” Cassius said. “What’s the death toll for the last few days? Fifty? More than that? I was at the firefight in Lowtown the other day. I know what’s coming.”

  Piso shrugged. “The people killed in Lowtown the other day weren’t mine. Why should I give a damn what happened to them?”

  “Cinna thought they were your people. That’s why he killed them. Doesn’t that speak to his intentions? And the message he had us leave? Could it be any clearer? The kidnapping. The deaths in Lowtown. The ambush at the safe house. The fires two nights ago.”

  “Why now?” Piso stared off. He ran his thumb along the edge of the blade, testing it absently. “Things have been quiet for years. Not peaceful, of course. But there hasn’t been open war either.”

  “Have you ever considered that he might not be in his right mind?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Nothing. Just rumors. I shouldn’t have even brought it up.”

  “Tell me.”

  “There’s talk of Cinna being sick,” Cassius said. “Whore’s disease. They say he’s had it for years.”

  “Dick rot?” Piso laughed. “That dirty bastard.”

  “Over time, it drives you mad, you know? You start acting on impulse. Grow paranoid.”

  “And you’d have me believe all this without proof?”

  “You can believe what you like. But the fact remains, I’ve ruined my relationship with Cinna to come here. There’s nowhere else for me to go on this island. Even if you don’t trust me entirely, trust my desperation.”

  Piso nicked his thumb on the blade. A drop of dark blood dripped to the floor. He brought his thumb to his lips and sucked the wound.

  “How do I know this isn’t some ploy by Cinna to plant a spy in my ranks?”

  “You’ll have to test my loyalty.”

  • • •

  Cassius’s room was cramped and smelled of sweat. He sat cross-legged on a fusty cot, one of ten in the room, his cot covered with an old blanket, gray and rotting. On the opposite wall, an open window revealed a cloudless, midday sky and a blazing, unrelenting sun. A church bell sounded noon. Cassius heard men move about downstairs, heard them talk of him in whispers.