by Tom Lloyd
The main entrance was open, and freshly painted -as they turned in to the open gateway Shandek had to check his stride to avoid a man crouching at the right-hand gate, putting the final touches to the elaborate picture.
Mayel stopped and looked, trying to imagine the whole image, while Shandek muttered an apology for his foot clipping the painter’s trailing heel. The painting was not what Mayel had expected, not the usual sort of scenes that hinted at the delights awaiting them within.
‘The Broken Spear, Five Wives of the Sea -even The Triumph of Gods would be a more obvious choice than this one,’ Mayel muttered.
Against a granite sky of roiling cloud, the aftermath of a battle on a bowl-shaped plain. In the background, a huge castle crowned by five massive towers. One of those towers had been shattered and flames, painted with such skill they seemed real to Mayel, licked at the castle wall. Before the walls towered the varied shapes of the Reapers, Death’s violent Aspects, who embodied the ways men feared to die: the emaciated face of the Soldier glared down at the slain around his feet, while the Burning Man stood on a hillock behind him with arms outstretched like a martyr. The Great Wolf was a vague shape in the background, stalking its prey in the blurred shadows, and the Headsman reclined on a distant block of stone with his axe propped on his shoulder. Strangely, it was the Wither Queen who was painted in the greatest detail. Mayel felt her cruel gaze, her pale grey eyes, slice into him. Her lips as thin as dagger-blades were slightly parted, as though she was about to speak his name.
He felt her cold touch on his skin. His mother wasn’t the only person Mayel had seen dying of disease; he had known some who had endured agonising months of her cruelty. The Wither Queen robbed her victims of everything, of the person they had once been as much as the life her lord demanded. Though she was a God, Mayel hated her for what she was.
The detail of the plain below the Reapers was vague; angular shapes hinted at a carpet of slaughtered men and creatures. Somehow the magnitude of the horror was increased by the remoteness. Framing the entire plain was a high ridge of grim rocks the colour of sand. Mayel looked closer and realised that there was the faintest of detail on the rocks, almost like the grain of wood. He shivered, thinking of the pine boxes wealthier folk used to bury their dead in.
‘Gods, man,’ Shandek exclaimed, ‘you’ve quite a skill there. This is better than any I’ve seen in my life.’
‘Thank you, sir. It’s . . .’ The painter’s voice tailed off as he looked from Shandek to the painting. A small man with the dark skin that spoke of a western heritage, he wore little more than rags, yet his face was clean and his hair carefully trimmed. His expression was one of dazed bemusement, as if he couldn’t believe he had been able to produce it. ‘It is the best thing I’ve ever done, by a long way.’
‘I didn’t know you cared anything about art,’ Mayel said to his cousin, unable to tear his eyes from the painting.
‘Ah, I’ve seen a bit in my time.’ Shandek grinned.
‘When? You’re no collector.’
‘No, but I’ve been in plenty of places belongin’ to men who are. You have my compliments, friend. Can you tell us where the man in charge is?’
The painter gave a wince and jabbed his brush towards the interior. ‘The minstrel will be in one of the boxes. Sitting in shadow. If you go in they’ll find you soon enough.’
‘They?’ wondered Shandek aloud, but the painter had already returned to his work. Shrugging, Shandek stepped through the gates and glanced into the dim, cramped room where the money-collectors would work, counting the copper pieces as folk filed in. It was empty yet, without even a stool or table.
A walkway led off both left and right, to storerooms of no more than two yards’ depth on the outer side, and the boxes for the rich folk further in on the inner wall. Ahead was a short flight of steps leading into the theatre itself.
Shandek hopped up these and turned to beckon Mayel to follow. The youth hesitated, still unnerved by the painting on the door. The style reminded him of religious paintings, the ancient and holy images they had been so proud of on the Island of Birds.
Behind him, he felt the presence of Brohm loom close. He’d been shadowing them, and he wasn’t going to enter until Mayel had.
‘Why did you want me to come here with you?’
‘Why?’ Shandek puffed his cheeks out in dismissal. ‘No great reason, cuz. I wanted to speak to you before I came, thought you might be interested. Also, you got more learnin’ than me. These artistic types might say somethin’ clever and I wouldn’t know whether to agree or stab ’em.’
Mayel sighed and started up the steps. Something nagged at him. I don’t want to be here at all, but what am I frightened of? Jackdaw won’t be here, and what else do I have to be afraid of?
As if in answer, a figure leapt out behind Shandek and grabbed him by his shoulders in a blur of bone-white. Shandek yelped and tried to turn, but his attacker held him tight, pinning his arms back. Mayel saw a white, hairless head and a savage flash of teeth over Shandek’s shoulder. His cousin flailed madly as Brohm shoved Mayel aside and ran for the stairs, but before he reached his employer, the albino had jumped backwards and effortlessly tossed Shandek away.
Brohm raised his massive fist as he charged, but the albino was quicker. Darting forward, he lunged low and crashed a fist into Brohm’s stomach, stopping the larger man in his tracks. Brohm gasped and doubled over, sinking to his knees, only to be grabbed by the scruff of the neck and thrown down after his master. Mayel heard the thump of Brohm falling and rolling on the rough paved steps. Then there was silence.
Having dispatched both men from his path, the albino paused, hairless head bright in the sunlight. He was dressed in cropped linen trousers and a laced shirt, sleeves cut well short of the wrist. As Mayel took in the albino’s malformed face, he wondered whether this was a human at all. It looked as if some God had formed the albino from white clay, using a detailed description, but without actually seeing the real thing. The features were too smooth, the jaw protruding and thick. Its eyes were over-large, curling almonds of blackness. Meeting the albino’s gaze drained the warmth from Mayel’s heart, drawing him in to a cold and pitiless place.
He tore his eyes away as the albino continued to inspect him, looking at him as if he were an insect, or a rabbit that had surprised a wolf by not running. He looked down. Its bare feet were split down the middle and Mayel’s breath caught when he realised each foot mainly consisted of two great toes, a short talon curled down over the end of each.
‘That’s enough, I think,’ called an unseen man. The albino’s head snapped round, but soon dropped its glare. It pointed at Mayel, then retreated with alacrity.
‘Please, come out into the light. My guard dog won’t hurt you.’
Mayel stared out into the open auditorium, frozen with fear, until a burst of swearing rang out. He scrambled up the steps.
‘Pissin’ breath of Karkarn!’ his cousin groaned. ‘I’ll shove that painter’s brush so far up his arse he’ll paint with his tongue from now on.’
‘Now, now,’ said the voice, and a man dressed as a minstrel came into sight, lounging in a box with his feet up on the barrier. Around his neck was a golden chain, with strange discs, like coins, decorated with jewels. A peacock feather sprouted from his hat. ‘I am certain the painter will have told you no lies, so you can hardly blame him for the actions of others.’
Shandek hauled himself up. Brohm was sitting upright, clutching his gut. Neither looked badly hurt.
‘We jus’ came here to talk. Didn’t hafta set your wolves on us,’ Brohm muttered.
The minstrel gave a sniff. ‘They’re dogs, not wolves.’
‘Look more like wolves to me,’ Shandek replied, dusting himself down and walking up to Mayel’s side. The albino retreated into the shadow of another box. Mayel scanned the theatre, the empty rows of stone steps surrounded by cramped rooms for the rich, all looking down on the pit, a round area of flattened earth. There wer
e deep shadows at the back, where Mayel thought he glimpsed another white face.
‘There is a difference. Wolves do not take orders, wolves are not tamed.’
‘You call these tame?’ Shandek wondered, rubbing at his temple, where a bruise was starting to colour the skin.
‘Certainly. They obey my commands without question and since I have given them instructions to dissuade trespassers, they are most enthusiastic in the execution of that order. I did not say they were less dangerous than wolves, quite the opposite. Shandek, you should understand that.’ The minstrel’s voice was low and mocking.
Mayel felt somehow sullied.
‘Why should I understand that?’ Shandek wondered. ‘Never met one of these bastards before.’
‘You should understand because you own dog-fighting pits,’ the minstrel explained. ‘The savagery in a dogfight surpasses anything a wolf would do. It is men that make them dangerous -men have corrupted the wolf and created a more dangerous creature in his own image.’
‘You sound like you disapprove of the change,’ Mayel interjected, ‘yet you make use of these dogs and all their savagery.’
‘I, disapprove?’ The minstrel smiled, showing bright white teeth in his tanned face. ‘Not at all. Wolves were made into dogs to serve a purpose, and it is those who control the purpose who are to blame for whatever may happen, not the animal. All things change over the course of time. Those who fight it are shouting without air in their lungs.’ ‘You mean silent?’ Mayel found himself asking, almost hypnotised by the minstrel’s voice.
‘Drowned.’
Mayel felt himself being drawn into the minstrel’s dark, piercing gaze. The minstrel was just a man, from the south somewhere, Mayel guessed, but like his albino, his eyes were devoid of humanity. ‘But where did your dogs come from?’
‘I have travelled far, even into the Waste. It’s a stranger place than folk would like us to believe. Change there is a harsh master. Only the strong have survived.’
‘Wait a moment,’ Shandek interrupted, ‘my name—?’
‘How could one not have heard of you?’ the minstrel broke in smoothly. ‘You are the man who is lord of this manor.’
‘Knowin’ my name’s one thing, recognisin’ me’s another. As for this bein’ my district, that’s close enough, and I don’t like new folk in it who I don’t know.’
‘Yet you come with only one thug in tow. That young man doesn’t look much of a threat.’
‘Never mind him. Who’re you?’
‘I’m sure you know what reception we gave the last man who marched in here. You’re being a little demanding, don’t you think?’ The minstrel slipped his feet off the barrier and stood as though to leave the box, but he remained in the shadows.
‘I’m not here to break heads until we get tribute, that’s the Spider’s domain. I’m just lookin’ to see that there’s no trouble in my district -and per’aps to see whether there’s business to be done here.’
‘Ah, a man of enterprise. Excellent news. Someone who understands the value of things, of people. In that case, this conversation might just be worth continuing.’ The minstrel tipped his peaked hat. ‘My name is Rojak. Join me in a drink.’
He produced a fired-clay bottle and set it on the barrier. Mayel noticed the paint was worn and cracked -clearly the painter had more menial work to come once he’d finished the magnificent gates. Four small cups, half a finger-length in size, followed the bottle.
Rojak pulled the cork and poured a clear liquid into each cup, then offered one each to Shandek, Brohm and Mayel. Mayel sniffed: it smelled sharp, a rough-edged brandy laced with something, peach, maybe. The taste was sickly, but he swallowed it down as fast as he could and ignored the sting.
‘Wonderful. Now we’re friends.’
‘It seems we are,’ Shandek replied. He cast his eyes around the theatre. ‘So, you the owner of the company?’
‘The leader. Our owner is, well, here only in spirit.’ Rojak gave a sly smile. ‘I am the playwright. The actors are engaged in various pursuits in the city until we have prepared the theatre.’
‘Commissioned by Siala?’
‘Why do you think that?’
‘She’s just taken control o’ the city. Don’t sound like the White Circle is so popular as she’d like t’believe. Maybe she’s tryin’ to get the support of the city, in case the Farlan attack, or somethin’. ’
Rojak raised an eyebrow. ‘For a man some might describe as a “local criminal”, you have an astute mind. We have not, in fact, been commissioned, no.’
‘So why Scree?’
‘It was felt that our talents could be well employed here.’
‘By someone who’d never been here?’ snorted Shandek. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, Master Rojak, but I don’t think Scree was the best choice. This city ain’t rich or cultured, not compared to some. I hear you’re taking the theatre for the rest of the year, but few folk’ll pay to see your plays. If it does come to war, things will be even harder for you.’
‘Your concern warms my heart. I, however, keep my faith. We have a number of plays to show. Our work will be tested out and refined as the weeks pass. Once this summer is over, we shall be ready to move on to the rest of the Land.’ Rojak’s eyes gleamed. He stared straight at Mayel, who recognised that look of contained savagery; he’d seen it in the eyes of one of the brothers at the monastery, a man who’d preyed on the youngest novices. But he thought this was worse: this minstrel was no slobbering coward, and his avarice was for the whole Land. His pleasure would be in the pain of nations. Amidst the wreckage of civilisation and cowed peoples, that soft smile would grow ever broader. Mayel tried not to shudder visibly.
‘A strange time for showin’ plays at all,’ Shandek said. ‘These are dark times, accordin’ to what I’ve been hearin’ on the street.’
‘Then they will need diversion from the cares of life.’
‘Can’t see many goin’ to the expense. If we war with the Farlan, as I’ve been hearin’, folk’ll need every penny just to buy food, and they’ll likely get taxed for half of that too. I’d say you’d get better money as soldiers, or bodyguards to a merchant. Your dogs could guard a man as easily as a theatre, and they’d be more willin’ to pay.’
‘My dogs are as devoted to our art as I am.’ Rojak inclined his head towards the albino, hovering in the shadows like a ghost. ‘The petty squabbles of the powerful are not our concern. Our place is here, and here we will stay, to spread our message to every man, woman and child of Scree. We will witness the changes that are to come, changes I have foreseen in the fall of coins, when the storm comes to Scree, commissioned by a calling greater than the White Circle.’
Mayel took a tentative step back. The minstrel’s voice had risen above a whisper for the first time and his hands, once piously clasped, now flew about, gesticulating sharply. He slipped over the rail.
Rojak’s words echoed inside Mayel’s head, trembling his bones like the crash of falling tombstones. Alarmed by the minstrel’s sudden animation, he cast a look at his cousin, who was equally startled.
And then it was over. Suddenly still once more, fingers again interlocked, Rojak peered down at the ground, as though saying a silent prayer, not blinking, hardly breathing. He appeared oblivious to their presence.
Shandek was as confused as Mayel. Had those last few moments been a piece of drama, an indulgence by a playwright, or was it something more? Mayel bit his lip, worried.
Twenty heartbeats passed. Still Rojak didn’t move, though his head and shoulders were now bathed in sunlight too bright for Mayel’s eyes.
Finally: ‘Power has come to this city,’ he murmured abruptly.
Mayel recoiled at the sound of his cruel, velvety lilt.
‘Slipping furtive and fearful, it comes in the night. There are games being played here -plots to be acted out, blood to be shed. There will be a spring torrent of cleansing, and those born will emerge in the blood of others.’ Rojak’s head snapped up, th
e black irises burning like acid into Mayel’s skin.
Mayel felt a twist of terror in his bowels, as though that corrosive gaze had seared his gut.
‘Take care what games you play, young sparrow. Eagles soar above these streets and vultures watch from the trees. They will prey on you and your like.’
Mayel staggered back as though he’d been struck. His mouth opened, but all sound was stolen from him. In the corner of his eye he caught a movement, a dark flutter in the deep wings of the stage. The memory of Prior Corci’s tattoos rose unbidden, the stain of feathers on Jackdaw’s cheeks and forehead like a painted helm.
Mayel turned to flee. Shandek called his name and reached out, but Mayel, filled with the fear that had been his constant companion for the last few weeks, slipped through his cousin’s fingers. Despite the ghastly spectre of pursuit, he couldn’t help but look back. There was nothing in the pit beyond empty shadows. The deep steps leading down to it were all in sun, except the very top, which was cut through by the straight line of the roof’s shadow.
Something caused Mayel to hesitate. The worn step with a chipped edge. The unbroken line of shadow. The shadow of the building behind Rojak. He looked up again. The minstrel had not moved. His head was still bathed in the clear morning sun that rose behind his head and left his face in shadow.
Seeing Mayel’s aghast expression, Rojak smiled coldly, lips parting to show his small, sharp teeth.
‘Where’s—Where’s his shadow?’ Mayel whispered, uncomprehending. He looked again at the straight line of shadow cast by the rooftop behind Rojak and felt a chill steal down his spine. He bit back a scream, flapped an arm towards his cousin, then fled as though the denizens of Ghenna were calling his name.
CHAPTER 11
‘I think I could grow rather used to being the lord of all I survey. ’
Tila, riding at Isak’s side, chuckled. With the summer sun beginning to fade on the eastern horizon, the shadows of the alders that lined one side of the road were reaching deep and long over them. Isak watched the flickers of light and dark washing over the lead riders. He shifted again in his saddle; uncomfortable in the formal riding tunic Tila had all but ordered him to wear that morning. He was making damn sure she noticed his discomfort.