River of Thieves

by Clayton Snyder

  ***

  They’d held the gathering in the market square, the vendors cleared out, the stalls and booths taken down, and in their place, a tall wooden platform hung with colorful banners, each bearing the king’s livery. Guards stood watch at each entrance, and in the crowd. They’d quelled the mobs, for now.

  The place teemed with people, noble and peasant alike jostling for position in order to view the mastermind that foiled King Mane. Vendors mingled in the crowd, trays heaped with small mincemeat pies and cups of mulled wine that spiced the air and made my stomach rumble. The whole place took on the air of a festival.

  I looked up and saw Cord’s body propped against a short wooden wall. Someone, no doubt the king's chief propagandist, had placed a jester's hat on his head and drawn a crude caricature next to him, of a bloated Cord holding bags of money.; His smile leered, X's painted over his eyes. The king towered over him in the drawing, a flaming sword in one hand, a speech bubble above with the word 'Cad!' printed within. It looked like a child did the work, or a very dumb adult. I thought Cord would have gotten a good laugh.

  I pressed my way into the crowd, for the most part getting as much notice as a beggar on the low street. A waiter passed, and I snagged a pie and a cup of wine. He stopped to sneer at me, but found other things to do when a noble with more money than sense, if his haircut was any indication, snapped his smarmy little fingers. The waiter disappeared into the crowd and I found a spot on the wall to chew on the pie and sip the wine. My appetite had fled though, and I tossed the food to the side. I craned my neck to see what they'd planned on doing with Cord.

  A round of trumpets blaring knocked me from my near-coma, and I started, standing up straight. The crowd shuffled and slithered closer together, making way for a troop of knights in bright chainmail, their iron-shod boots ringing against the cobbles. They stomped to a halt at the base of the platform, spaced arm-length apart, turning their backs to the crowd. A page in a haircut that made me wonder if an official hair-cutting bowl existed in the castle came next, a scroll in his hands. He, too, stopped at the base of the platform and unrolled the parchment, cleared his throat, and read.

  "Hear ye! The illustrious King Mane, Herald of the Gods, Protector of the Realm, Divinely Chosen of the Four Duchies, Holder of the Sixteen Names, and Wielder of His Divine Manhood, commands that you shall attend and witness the judgment he pronounces on this thief, scoundrel, and traitor to the throne!"

  For a moment I was afraid I had sprained something rolling my eyes. I blinked and looked up at Cord. Now would be a good time for him to wake the fuck up and run. Barring that, now would be a good time for him to be dead for good. I cast about - no way was I getting him down from there. I resigned myself to watching and idly wondered if I could recover his body after. I could probably use our savings to give him a nice burial and then retire to some nation that didn’t have a treaty with these assholes.

  The trumpets blared again and the crowd grew silent. The king, resplendent in crimson and gold, a shining peaked crown on his head, walked between his knights with utter confidence. His Harrower lurked behind, generally creeping the crowd out. Mane climbed the steps to the platform. His pinched face and bald pate gleamed in the noon sun. He raised his arms.

  "Silence!"

  Never mind that no one had been talking. He lowered his arms and smiled to the crowd. I slipped through it, little notice paid to me as Mane commanded the attention of the attendees.

  "I am so glad you all could come. This is what it means to be a Midianite. Men and women, commoner and noble. You all know I rose to the throne from humble beginnings, my own father little more than a duke, not much land to his name other than several million crowns, a forest, and a few thousand acres. You know how I worked hard, donated my men and my time to the wars of my predecessors. You know how I care about you. I made being a smith, a farmer, a cobbler - I made all of these great again in the eyes of the gods!"

  He paused for the polite smattering of applause. Someone jingled a bell. When it died out, he continued. I found myself only a couple feet away from his Harrower, the man still holding the severed hand in his own.

  "And now"―His mien turned sad, his voice downcast―"And now, one of your own, a commoner, a citizen of the kingdom, decided to steal from us. Yes, he stole from me, but in turn all of you, for is not my wealth your wealth? Is not my fortune your own?"

  More applause, the jingling of bells louder, though the king did not seem to notice it.

  "So, it saddens me. I hate to hurt the little people."

  He didn't seem to notice or care he was talking about a corpse. I wondered how this didn't bother anyone else the way it made my skin creep across my bones.

  "But, everyone must be treated equally. So, I proclaim that this traitor, this loser, this scum be purged with fire."

  He leaned in and kissed Cord on the cheek. Then the other. Cord's eyes popped open, and his hands shot up, grabbing the king by his face and kissing him full on the mouth. Something squirmed between them, Cord's throat bulging, passing from his mouth to the king. When it finished, Cord let him go. The king fell back, clutching his stomach as Cord staggered to his feet and threw himself off the far end of the stage.

  For a moment, silence held the crowd. The knights stood as though they had shit their armor and feared to leave a trail. Bells jingled merrily. I assumed that meant Cord was fleeing. I stood rooted in place though, and for a split second, it looked like nothing else would happen. Then, with a sound like a ripping sail and a geyser of blood and bone, something the size of a small dog ripped from the king's guts. It savaged him on the way out, his wails of pain ending as though someone had hit him in the face with a hammer.

  The Harrower lifted his arms, as if to perform some act of horrific magic, and I slammed both blades into his spine. The high hum died on his lips, blood bursting from between his teeth. He collapsed into a heap, and I slipped back into the crowd. They'd begun to riot, alternately cheering and screaming as they took down first the knights, then the herald, ripping chunks of hair from his scalp.

  One by one, nobles were borne down and beaten or torn apart. Someone recovered the king's flaming sword and set the platform aflame, then ran the blade through at least three other nobles. They pinwheeled through the crowd like meat torches, dripping molten flesh like candle wax. I edged my way out and fled the carnage, narrowly avoiding the grasping arms of a waiter beaten with his own tray and a wild milliner with an eight-inch hatpin.

  I ran down the street as fast as I could, not looking back, heading for the cottage. Screw Cord; screw Midian. There wasn’t time for niceties like Camor’s first rule, or even hiring a crew to get out of town. Hook, crook, or carved flesh, I was leaving. My new plan was to get out so fast I left a Nenn-shaped hole in the wall.

  Bandit Lettuce Tomato

  I'd just about hit the craftsman quarter when a roar went up from the northern part of the city. I turned back to see the glow of flames, great plumes of smoke rising into the sky like black serpents. Terrified guards and townspeople rushed past, and more than once, I heard cries of wights. I supposed Rek hadn't shut that door after all.

  I made my way to the breach in the wall we'd entered in, plunging through the tunnel and out the other side. I burst onto the boardwalk of the shantytown to find its citizens already fleeing, loading up small boats and larger skiffs with belongings, crowding one another as they all vied to fit. I fought my way through the crowds, running down planks that already beginning to sink into the river.

  Torlc's place still stood, but the door hung on broken hinges. Torlc’s body hung impaled on a long pike. I wondered at the strength it had taken to do that, and thought it better not to find out. A figure stood beside the pike, weeping, and curiosity seized me. I approached.

  The stranger's head was the size of a large pumpkin, the skin smooth and crimson, taut and shining. He turned at the sound of my footsteps and I found myself looking into eyes red with weeping, a yellowish ooze dripping f
rom them, seeds marking the liquid.

  "What happened here?" I asked.

  "The Leashmen. They killed him. And their Harrower cursed me. I'm a tomato!"

  "A... tomato?"

  He nodded his bulbous head and more of the yellow stuff dripped from his eyes. He flicked out a tongue to clear it away.

  "Oh gods, I'm so delicious!" he wailed.

  I backed away until I was a safe distance and sprinted to the Bough Mount. It still bobbed in its berth, untouched. I wondered why the wizards left it, and got my answer when four hooded figures stepped from below decks. I skidded to a halt. One of them held a blade, and another lifted a hand, energy crackling between their fingers. They seemed to consider me for a moment, then the third, smaller than the others, raised a hand and beckoned me aboard. I hesitated only for a moment. The smell of the city burning, the cries of the citizens, and the howls of the wights came to me on the wind. It was all the motivation I needed. When the world rears up and says get the fuck out of the way, you listen.

  I hopped aboard, and in a matter of moments, the ship began to move, the crewmen navigating away with perfect efficiency. I flopped onto the deck, watching as the city dwindled. The mainsail was let down, and we picked up speed. Midian drew further and further away. Clouds gathered above, a chill sweeping across the water. We rounded a bend and the city disappeared. The first flakes of snow fell.

  I heaved a sigh, and laid on the deck. The shorter stranger sat beside me.

  "The Kingkillers?"

  He tipped his hood back, as did the others. Lux, Rek, and Cord, all grinning.

  "You didn't think that Harrower cursed only me, did you?" Cord said.

  I punched him in the face, and he reeled back, the others bursting into laughter. He held his nose for a moment, letting blood trickle between his fingers. When he pulled them away, he was still grinning.

  "Hell of a plan, huh?" he asked.

  "Yeah, hell of a plan. Did Rek finally get to kill you?"

  He nodded. "Right after you left. Blade through the lung. Really hurt."

  "Good," I said and leaned in to hug him. "Where to now?"

  He shrugged, looked around at the snow falling in fat flakes. "Someplace warmer, I think."

  This is the Chapter About an Asshole

  He sank beneath the waves, spilling a viscous cloud of red. Blood ballooned out from the wound in his neck like ribbon pulled from a child's stuffed toy. Had it been any other time, any other place, any other person, he'd think it beautiful. Instead, he gagged on the taste of sewage runoff, fish, and blood. His lungs burst for air, and despite himself, he sucked in a breath, trying desperately to breathe. All he got for his trouble was a lungful of brackish water and a parasite that thought to itself what the fuck, but quickly settled in.

  The waters around Tremaire were frightening, even to a Harrower. The wizards in the tower dumped failed experiments there, the Harrowers sometimes using the lake as a testing ground for horrors they dared not unleash on land. Flakes of white silt and the loose scales of something floated by him, and he thrashed to escape. He wanted to reach out to his brothers and sisters in the Hive, to let them know he was dying, to avenge his death. He knew it didn't matter. Harrowers were by nature solitary creatures. If by some miracle you managed to get them to work together, by hook or crook, it was always a short partnership. No, a Harrower was about a Harrower, and little else.

  He thrashed again, sending little fish scattering in his wake, and reached toward the surface. His gift burned just below his chest, trapped now, as he was, and he knew even if he tried screaming the Sorrow, there would be no escape. He would simply bleed out and die, sinking to the bottom like a whale, more chum for the deep dwellers, bones bleached and alone.

  His vision flickered. They say your whole life flashes before your eyes before death. Each flicker of darkness came to him with a crackle and a snap. His lungs burned, and his ribs threatened to shatter with the effort of holding the lake out. He had little strength left. He screamed into the water as the dark claimed him, the sound causing the wound in his neck to pulse like a mouth, vomiting crimson threads into the gray water. In his last moments of conscious thought, he supposed it was true. Everyone's like a book. When we're opened, we're red.

  ***

  His name, before the Change, was Qualinast Aurelian. He had been a good child. Dull, perhaps, but studious. He remembered that. Before. Before the box had come to him, unassuming in its simplicity, unadorned in any way. Simple pine, like the Gentian forests he'd grown up near. He'd questioned his father and the servants as to what it might be, or who'd delivered it, but no one had answers for him. Included was a note, the hand spidery, the prose rhyming.

  Inner sight

  Outer eyes

  From the dark

  The dead ones rise

  Beyond the gate

  The blackened sun

  Will you look

  Little one

  He'd set the box on the mantle in his room, the card beside it. Truth be told, the card sent a chill up his spine. For a time he forgot about it. You know how it is with young boys--sunshine and grass, warm chaff in the air and trimmed branches for swords. Days with friends, chasing bright motes of sunlight across creek beds, shoving in line with friends at the bakers. Early morning smell of pastries in the oven, afternoon smell of roast pig. Music at night. Finally, his head in his mother's lap as he drifted to sleep, her fingers tangled in his hair.

  Still, no summer lasts forever, and the rains came. Holed up in a castle once comfortable, chill drafts blew between the stones of the walls, the ceilings dripped. Exploring only left you cold and dirty. Friends and adults found important things to do, leaving him wandering the dusty library, or to his own devices in his room. Outside, thunder rippled across the forest, the wind bending the trees back like supple spines.

  Boredom fossilized him, turned his thoughts to mud and rubbish. He imagined the rain outside falling in his head, slicking the normally bright pathways of his mind. He glanced around his room, at the discarded toys. Wooden soldiers and brightly-painted nobles, animals and beasts carved and smoothed, and tin swords cut and hammered to his size. His eyes fell on the box on the mantle, and he padded over and took it down. He flopped back on the bed and ran his fingers over it.

  The wood was cool to the touch--almost cold--and smooth. A simple clasp held it shut. He held it up to his ear and shook it. Something inside rattled. He wondered what it could hold. A pair of dice? Perhaps little bones, gathered and bleached and carved into interesting shapes? He'd seen something similar once at a mummer's show, the actor wearing a necklace of them. Maybe it was sweets. Candies from far-off Ilicia, delicate lace-chocolate from Yaro, maybe those hard but sweet dried meats from Midian.

  At the thought, his stomach rumbled, and he shook it once more, listening to the rattle. There was no embargo on opening the box. He'd simply not found it interesting in the summer. His mouth watered at the idea of sugar melting on his tongue, the sweet rush of chocolate as it filled his senses. Unable to wait any longer, he popped the clasp and flipped the lid open, peering inside.

  Eyes. Two disembodied eyes lay inside, milky-white and dried. He almost dropped the box, but the curiosity of youth made him grip it tighter, pull it close to his face. He watched with morbid fascination as spider legs sprouted from each, and they began to move. At first, a sort of dark wonder held him, and he watched as the legs kicked and floundered, righted the eyes. They climbed the sides of the box, then hopped out, onto his hand.

  Instinct caused him to loosen his grip on the wood, but by then, it was too late. The eyes scrambled up his arms, clawed their way up his neck. They pinched as they crossed his cheeks, and though he clawed and fought and wept, they kept coming. With precise motions, they thrust their legs into his eyes and wrenched the orbs out.

  His screams attracted his mother. She burst into the room in time to see his eyes settle into his head. He felt the hot stream of blood covering his cheeks from the pair that
had once occupied his sockets. He turned to her, jaws clenched in a rictus of agony, and screamed through his teeth.

  Where Florinima Aurelian had once stood, he saw only a naked mass of raw flesh. He screamed and went to the window, hoping it had been an illusion. Below, in the stableyards, horses milled together under the lessening rain. Their black carapaces glinted in the gloaming, their manes of braided intestines shone wetly.

  He opened his mouth and screamed again, this time bright and high, and in his mind, a door opened. The horror that stood on the other side reached out welcoming arms, and Qualinast fell into them gratefully.

  Oros loves you, child, the god said.

  PART TWO

  Epigraph

  Ladies and Gentleman, step right up and

  See the man who told the truth

  -Metallica, Bad Seed

  Way to Go, Fuckbrain

  Midian burned at our backs, and we sped west. Behind us, a ramshackle fleet of scows and tall ships jostled for position between the banks of the Lethe. They fled the ruins of Mane’s kingdom as surely as cockroaches flee a burning house. The future lay ahead in murky vagaries. What of the magi that pursued us, or their Leashmen? No sign. Would our passage stir the ire of anyone watching? We didn’t know that either. Cord suspected it would remain unremarked upon for some time, at least until they cleaned up the mess we’d made. Then in all likelihood, they’d start looking for someone to blame. He planned to be nowhere near when the hammer came down.

  We spent three days outrunning the refugees. When their sails finally dwindled on the horizon, the masts like a broken forest behind us, Cord called us to the deck. He looked at the encroaching mountains ahead, and the sere edges of the Veldt, where the plains met the stony hills before the range thrust into the sky.