by Phil Tucker
It was a narrow wedge of a room, barely four yards wide at the door and tapering to a point cut off by Istrikar’s desk. Windows had been chiseled out of the walls, curtains pulled back so that the sounds of the market arose from below to fill the air. Carpets had been laid haphazardly over the stone floor in such profusion that the ground felt springy to the step, and sandalwood incense burned from a half-dozen sticks that alternated with glass lanterns along the columns between the windows.
Istrikar himself sat behind the desk, a dozen glass bowls arrayed before him. He was examining one of them, holding it up to the light and scowling as if it personally offended him.
Acharsis hesitated and then crossed his arms, reaching up to rub at the bridge of his nose as he allowed Istrikar the opportunity to pointedly ignore him. He’d aged, of course; the last time Acharsis had seen his spymaster, the man had been in his late thirties, a barrel-chested and slab-faced man whose brutish appearance belied the quick, almost savage intellect that had allowed him to claw his way up to his vaunted position.
He’d started shaving his head somewhere along the line, leaving a faint shadow around the sides of his scalp and down the center showing where his hair had begun to recede. The former spymaster wore expensive silks beneath an intricately stitched surcoat of white and gold; a dramatic collar swelled up around his jawline, and a necklace of heavy, blood-red gold lay over his shoulders. Yet despite the finery, it was still Istrikar. His face had become heavier, a hint of jowls appearing at the sides. His nose was perhaps larger, and his barrel chest was now matched by a barrel stomach, but Acharsis wouldn’t have mistaken that irritated scowl anywhere.
Istrikar pulled a fresh tablet of clay toward him and made a series of careful impressions upon it with a reed. He stared at the offending glass bowl before him one last time and then set it aside, leaning back to regard Acharsis with his old, familiar glower.
“Human nature,” he said, his accent betraying a youth spent in Namtar’s slums. “What is it about these glassblowing idiots that makes them think they can get away with swindling me after getting caught time and time again? I’ve been too lenient. Been letting them off easy. Looks like some bones need breaking.” Istrikar paused, eyeing Acharsis, seeing and deducing no doubt far more in a matter of moments than most men would learn over the course of a month. “I hate being inconvenienced,” he continued. “I hate people trying to trade on familiarity to try and get the better of me. Now. What do you want?”
“It’s good to see you, Istrikar!” Acharsis smiled broadly. “You’ve aged well. I like the new look. Me? I’ve done all right for myself. Traveled some. Made dear friends. Still, nothing like running into a cherished old acquaintance. Am I right?”
A flicker of amusement passed over Istrikar’s thuggish features. “I’ll let you know if I see one. Now answer my question.”
“You wound me, old friend.” Acharsis stepped over to one window and gazed down at the market: the panoply of tents and stalls, the heads of the passers-by, large red canvases swooping down from above to block the sun, the islands of illuminated color. “I like your office. Both literally and figuratively. Head of the consortium, I hear?”
Istrikar sighed pointedly and laced his fingers over his stomach, leaning back in his chair with an expression of bored patience. “What of it?”
“Admirable, is what.” Acharsis crossed his arms and leaned against the window’s edge. “Power. Prestige. Wealth. Overseeing the interests of merchants from Khartis to far-flung Meluhha.”
“If I wanted my knob polished I’d have sent for a comely whore. You’re wasting my time. I told you. There are bones out there that need breaking. Get to the point.”
“What is it with people these days?” Acharsis shook his head. “Nobody seems to have the time for a little idle flattery. Very well. I need transport to Magan. I was hoping you could recommend a caravan that’s fast, safe, and discreet.”
“What are you bothering me for? Go to the staging area at dawn and show your coin. You’ll find one soon enough.”
Acharsis stayed silent.
“You ain’t got no coin.” Istrikar shook his head. “Fucking typical. I look like a charity ward to you?”
“No, you look like my old spymaster.” Acharsis allowed a touch of iron to enter his voice. “One who served at my pleasure for a half-dozen years, and served well.”
“Yeah, well, those half-dozen years are long gone.”
“But I imagine the man I once knew yet remains beneath that corpulence you’ve saddled yourself with.” Istrikar’s brow lowered but Acharsis pressed on. “The man who worked his way out of the slums through sheer wit and cunning. Who was determined to improve the lot of others by contributing to my success. Who wanted to bring greater wealth and education to the masses. Who would argue with me at all hours to devote more attention to public works, to elaborate my justice system, to rein in the excesses of others.”
Istrikar slowly sat up straight. “That man’s two decades dead. You’re starting to really piss me off, Acharsis. I’d advise you to shut up and leave.”
“Liar. You became the head of the consortium, what, ten years ago? I was running a trading venture up in Khartis at the time, and even up there I heard of the changes you made. The laws you implemented. The standardization of measuring weights. The punishments you mete out to thieves and swindlers. The Waystation’s never been this busy or filled with such varied goods, has it? Trade’s never been so good. And here you sit, in your cramped little office like a bloated spider, overseeing your empire - and to what end?” Acharsis took a step toward the desk. “Because you still care.”
Istrikar rose to his feet, a derisive comment on his lips, but Acharsis cut him off. “Not about people. I know you think humanity is asinine and not worth pissing on if they were on fire, but you care about systems. You like things to run smoothly. Efficiently. You like order. Logic. The maximization of benefits.”
Istrikar nodded thoughtfully and pulled a long-hafted ax from under his desk. Its bronze half-moon head looked wickedly sharp. “I suppose I do like all that. Why don’t you take a step closer and tell me more about myself?”
“That’s all going to the netherworld,” continued Acharsis. “I saw the death watch below. Irella’s moving in on your territory, isn’t she?”
Istrikar stayed silent. That was all the answer Acharsis needed.
“How much of a presence has she built up here already? How much more are you going to tolerate before you’re forced to shut the Waystation down? You’ve got a good thing going here. Good location, the spider silk trade, glassblowers, apparently - are you willing to burn it all down to the ground?”
Istrikar stayed silent.
“You hear about the invasion she’s launched into Magan?”
“Heard about troop movements down the Leonis,” said Istrikar. “Doesn’t mean she’s about to cross the steppe.”
“She’s not crossing the steppe,” said Acharsis.
“Not crossing the steppe? Then - what? Over the desert? You’re kidding me.”
“She’s sending the dead, old friend. Nekuul’s power is at its peak. Thousands of them are marching toward Uros as we speak. There, they’ll gather and cross the Puiama Strait to march across the desert and take Magan unawares.”
Acharsis knew Istrikar was too intelligent to not understand the implications. He could see his former spymaster working his way rapidly through all the consequences of such an invasion.
“What of it?” said Istrikar. “Say she takes Magan, then Khartis a year or two after that. What makes you think I won’t work for Irella?”
“The same reason you’re not working for her already,” said Acharsis quietly. “Because you hate her for what she did to our city. For her destruction of the nine gods. For her hubris, which gave her the kingship even as it laid the land to waste, causing tens of thousands to starve. You won’t serve her because she doesn’t appreciate what you and I appreciate: improvement, the betterment of soci
ety to the benefit of all.”
“You weren’t half this enthusiastic about my ideals when I served you,” said Istrikar, and Acharsis fought the urge to sigh in relief. “The only time you’d actually sit down to talk was when you wanted me to locate some woman you’d seen in the market.”
“I’ve discovered my civic duty in old age,” said Acharsis.
Istrikar grunted. “You want passage out to Magan over the steppes, you said. Discreet, fast, and safe.”
“That’s right.”
“And free.”
“We’re not useless. I’ve a Nekuulite godsblood in our number, along with several who can fight better than any other five men combined.”
Istrikar replaced the ax under the desk. “Interesting. Probably has nothing to do with what just happened in Rekkidu, does it?”
“I don’t know what you’re referring to,” said Acharsis.
“In that case, you won’t be interested in knowing that some two dozen soldiers just arrived, claiming to have been sent by Golden Piamat in search of a band of criminals. Jarek, son of Alok, along with a Nekuulite godsblood, and others.”
“That sounds a little far-fetched to me,” said Acharsis.
“Uh-huh. Well, the last thing I want is their getting in a fight with you here at the Waystation. My men would have to impose order, and that’d pull in the death watch. If you guarantee that you and your friends will leave without causing any problems, I’ll connect you with a caravan that’s in need of a leech. Their apsu’s just died, apparently, and they can’t get their dead oxen moving without one.”
“Discreet? Fast? Safe?”
“Once your Nekuulite works his charm on ‘em, sure.”
“His powers are fading. He’ll only be able to get them a ways into the steppe.”
“Not a problem. They’ve a Maganian priest whose powers should kick in by that point. The caravan’s led by Oxundo. Nasty piece of work, but he doesn’t sell his passengers to the nomads in exchange for safe passage and he knows what he’s doing. He’ll treat you fair at my word. You lot clear out of the Waystation now - not tomorrow - cross the bridge, and wait for him by the Hanging Rock. I’ll let him know to look for you there.”
Shouts rose up from below. Anger, outrage, fear.
Acharsis moved to the window, understanding as he did precisely why Istrikar had his office here. Looking down past the swathes of crimson canvas, he saw a disturbance taking place against the far cavern wall: a knot of people, thrust aside by death watch who were fighting their way into a recessed chamber of some kind. From his vantage point Acharsis could see into the chamber proper, where a young woman was drawing her hammer and backing away.
Acharsis groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. It was Kish. She had nowhere to run.
“Death watch,” growled Istrikar by his side. “Tell me that’s not a friend of yours they’ve cornered.”
Acharsis ignored him. It would take too long to run down the stairwell and then across the market floor. He needed to intervene now.
“Hanging Rock, you said? Thanks, old friend.” He studied the angled canvas sunblocks. Most hung flat, parallel to the ground, but a few sloped across the entirety of the market, smooth declivities as broad as the sails of a Khartisian ship.
“Guards!” roared Istrikar, moving toward his door. “Sound the alarm! I want—”
Acharsis didn’t hear the rest. Blood rushing in his ears, light-headed with nervousness and fear, he hopped up onto the windowsill. It was a hell of a jump. More screams sounded from below, and then he caught sight of Jarek crumpled on the floor outside the chamber, down on all fours.
“Ekillos be with me!” He leaped out into the void, high over the market floor, and with arms desperately outstretched grabbed hold of the uppermost hem of one of the massive sloping canvas sheets. The whole of it sagged under his weight, corners coming together above him as the ropes swung to accommodate his weight, and for a sickening second Acharsis thought his grip was going to slip and send him plummeting to the stone floor below.
Kicking his legs, he wriggled up and over the edge, diving forward and down into the furrow his weight made in the sheet. He rolled over as he began to slide down, picking up speed, the canvas svvvooshing around him as he raced down its center, stomach rising up to plaster itself against his diaphragm, his whole body locked rigid with fear as he hurtled down the crimson slope.
Everything was happening too fast. He wanted to curse his impetuosity, but the end of the canvas was racing up to meet him, a final upturn where the lower ropes held the edge above the furrow he was making. He hit the bottom and then shot up the final lip to fly out into the air, arms and legs cartwheeling as he became airborne once more.
He shot over the heads of the crowd, and only his reflexes allowed him to grab the edge of a much smaller canvas. It sagged violently beneath his weight; he swung out below it, collided with its underbelly, then heard the ropes snap as they failed to take his weight.
With a cry of despair, he fell the last few yards to the ground, the entirety of the crimson canvas fluttering down to cover the crowd bunched at the chamber's entrance. The breath was knocked out of him as Acharsis slammed into the rock, and for a moment it was all he could do to simply lie there, gasping like a landed fish and giving thanks for not having died.
“You mad bastard,” grunted Jarek. The large man was forcing himself to his feet. Acharsis scanned his friend's body for signs of a wound, but saw none. Jarek’s face glistened with sweat, his skin was pale, but he seemed unharmed.
The shouts had grown muffled beneath the huge canvas, which bulged and undulated as people fought to escape its smothering clutches. Even as Jarek reached down to help Acharsis climb to his feet, he saw Kish come crawling out through the forest of legs, hammer clutched in one hand.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” said Acharsis.
Kish sprang to her feet and wheeled around, ready for the guards. “Best we put them down now so they’re not at our backs.”
Acharsis eyed Jarek. His friend was swaying, his expression ghastly, eyes narrowed as if against a piercing light. “No. Another twenty or so of Piamat’s soldiers just arrived. We’ll be swamped. We need to get the others and escape. Hurry!”
A death watch guard fought his way free of the crowd, thrusting the canvas away angrily, and then pointed his bronze blade at them. “There! To me, death watch! To me!”
“Him?” Kish was almost pleading. “Let me drop him, at least?”
“Help Jarek, then run!” Acharsis gave her a push and slipped into the crowd, forging against the tide of curious onlookers. Off to his left he saw more of Irella’s guards thrusting their way closer, while angry yells from Istrikar’s guards came from behind them. This is getting ugly, fast.
Looking back, he saw Kish holding Jarek’s arm and guiding him forward. The large man was trying to keep up, but his feet kept tripping as if he barely had the strength to lift them. Acharsis craned his neck to gain a sense of the closing guards; off to the left he saw them drawing ever closer, a group of Piamat’s soldiers some eight strong. Coming in from the right were a dozen Waystation guards. They would soon be trapped.
He cast around wildly for inspiration and saw platters of gilded sweets piled high on the display boards of a nearby stall. He darted towards it, scooped up one of the great bronze plates, and hurled the glittering sweets high above the crowd. “Gold!” he screamed. “They’re after my gold!”
The effect was gratifying, if not quite as fanatical as he’d hoped; people looked up, caught sight of a flash of yellow, and immediately set to elbowing each other and rooting around the floor in an attempt to find what had just been tossed.
“This way,” said Acharsis, abandoning the direct route to the Dream Palace and instead ducking around the stall, leaving the two groups of guards to converge slowly on the increasingly irate crowd. They worked their way along the shadows, hugging the cavern wall, and when they finally broke free of the press Acharsis led t
hem at a jog toward the back.
“They’re still after us,” said Kish. “I can see one of them tracking us over there.”
Acharsis followed her finger and saw the guard, struggling through the crowd a few stalls into the cavern but clearly keeping an eye on them.
“Damn.” Acharsis considered sending Kish in to dispatch the man, but chose against it. That risked embroiling her in an ever-bigger fight as more guards arrived. “Move faster. We need to get the others, and get out of the Waystation.”
“How?” cried Kish, looking back again to check their rear. “We’re going to have to fight them!”
“I don’t know,” said Acharsis. “One step at a time. Hurry!”
They left the stalls behind as they entered the cavern’s rear. The guard let out a shout and followed at a safe distance, blade held aloft to indicate his position. Acharsis led the others around carts and slower pedestrians until finally they reached the very back. Playful music was streaming from some open window, and people were standing around enjoying themselves with cups of beer as if nothing untoward were taking place. They watched, curious, as Acharsis led the other two straight to the Palace and through the front door.
“We’ll be trapped,” said Jarek, his voice regaining some strength. “There another exit?”
“I told Azo to make one,” said Acharsis, slipping past women and their customers and into the first room. Smoke filled the air; somewhere, a stringed instrument was being idly plucked, and more curious glances were directed their way from lounging figures in the soft shadows.
“Ashanti!” Acharsis’ voice cut through the soft conversations and stilled the music. “Trouble!”
