by Brent Weeks
“You ready?” Kaldrosa asked, knowing it was a dumb question. Their floor was going to be opened to clients in just a few minutes.
“So ready I’ve told all my girlfriends at the other brothels.”
Kaldrosa froze. “Are you insane? You’ll get us all killed!”
“Didn’t you hear?” Daydra asked quietly, her face somber.
“Hear what?”
“The palies killed Jarl.”
The breath whooshed out of Kaldrosa. If she’d held onto any slim hope for the future, it had been because of Jarl. Jarl and his radiant face, his talk of expelling the Khalidorans and going legitimate, of building a hundred bridges across the Plith and eliminating all the laws that bound the Warren-born and the slaveborn and former slaves and the impoverished to the city’s west side. Jarl had spoken of a new order, and when he spoke, it sounded possible. She’d felt powerful in a way she never had before. She’d hoped.
And now Jarl was dead?
“Don’t cry,” Daydra said. “You’ll mess up your makeup. You’ll get all of us crying.”
“Are you sure?”
“The whole city’s talking about it,” Shel said.
“I saw Momma K’s face. It’s true,” Daydra said. “So you really think any lightskirt’s going to rat us out to them? After they killed Jarl?”
The last door on the landing opened and Bev came out wearing her bull dancer costume, ponytails wired up into twin horns, midriff bare, and short pants. The dancer’s knife at her belt didn’t look like the usual blunted blade. Bev was pale but resolute. “Jarl was always kind to me. And I’m not going to listen to that damned prayer of theirs one more time.”
“He was good to me, too,” another girl said, choking back tears.
“Don’t start,” Daydra said. “No tears! We’re gonna do this.”
“For Jarl,” another girl said.
“For Jarl,” the rest of the girls repeated.
A bell tinkled that told the girls their guests were coming.
“I told some other girls, too,” Shel said. “I hope that’s all right. As for me, I get Fat Ass. He killed my first suitemate.”
“I get Kherrick,” Jilean said. Under her makeup, her right eye was still a puffy yellow.
“Little Dick’s mine.”
“Neddard.”
“I don’t care who I get,” Kaldrosa said. She clenched her jaw so hard it hurt. “But I’m taking two. The first one’s for Tomman. The second’s for Jarl.”
The other girls looked at her.
“Two?” Daydra asked. “How are you gonna do two?”
“I’ll do what I have to. I’m getting two.”
“Fuck it,” Shel said. “Me too, but I’m taking Fat Ass first. Just in case.”
“I’m in,” Jilean said. “Now shut up. We’re on.”
The first man up the stairs was Captain Burl Laghar. Kaldrosa’s heart stopped beating. She hadn’t seen him since she’d moved in to the Craven Dragon to escape him. She stood frozen until he came to stand in front of her.
“Well, if it isn’t my little pirate bitch,” Burl said.
She couldn’t move. Her tongue was lead in her mouth.
Burl saw her fear and stuck his chest out. “See? I knew you were a whore before you did. I could tell you liked it the very first time I banged you in front of your husband. And here you are.” He smiled and was obviously disappointed that none of his sycophants were with him to laugh. “So,” he said finally. “You happy to see me?”
Inexplicably, the fear vanished. It was just gone. Kaldrosa smiled impishly.
“Happy?” she said, grabbing the front of his trousers. “Oh, you have no idea.” And she led him to her room. For Tomman. For Jarl.
That night, a gray-haired cripple climbed to the roof of the manse that had briefly belonged to Roth Ursuul but was now infested with hundreds of Rabbits. He balanced on his crutch in the moonlight and screamed into the night, “Come, Jarl! Come and see! Come and listen!” As the Rabbits gathered to watch the madman, a wind kicked up off the Plith. Tears shining in his eyes like stars, the general began reciting a dithyramb of hatred and loss. He sang a threnody to Jarl, a dirge for the hope of a better life. The words swirled with the wind and not a few Rabbits felt that not only the winds but the spirits of the murdered were gathering to the general’s voice, rising with the cadences of vengeance.
The humbled general screamed and shook his crutch at the heavens as if it were a symbol of every Rabbit’s impotence and despair. He screamed at the very moment the winds fell still.
The Warrens answered. A scream rose. A man’s scream.
As if released by that sound, the winds roared. Lightning cracked against the castle looming to the north, and the light painted the general black against the sky. Black clouds covered the moon and rain lashed down.
The Rabbits heard the general laughing, crying, defying the lightning, waving his crutch at the heavens as if conducting a wild chorus of rage.
Screams rose that night from the Craven Dragon as never before. Women who had refused to scream for their clients before now screamed loudly enough to make up for all their previous silence. Beneath those screams, the grunts and whimpers and soft cries and begging of dying men were never heard. Forty Khalidorans died at the Craven Dragon alone.
Momma K’s plot had been for one brothel, after which she planned to smuggle the girls out of the city. It was supposed to make the Khalidorans think twice about brutalizing the working girls. But the plan, whipped up by the news of Jarl’s death, spread like wildfire. One brothel owner invented a holiday as an excuse to serve lots of ale cheap to get his customers as drunk as possible. He called it Nocta Hemata. The Night of Passion, he claimed, smiling broadly at his guests. Another brothel owner who’d worked with Jarl for years confirmed that it was an old Cenarian tradition. The Night of Abandon, he said.
Across the city, fueled by drugged food and excessive drink, brothels celebrated an orgy unlike any ever seen. The air filled with shrieks and screams and wild ululations. Screams of terror, screams of vengeance, frenzied screams of blood lust and blood debts repaid. Men, and women, and even the small men and women in children’s bodies who were the guild rats killed with savagery too terrible to comprehend. Bereaved men, women, and children stood over bloodied Khalidoran corpses and called upon the ghosts of their dead beloved to see what vengeance they had wrought, called upon Jarl to see what retribution they had exacted from the flesh of the enemy. Dogs howled and horses panicked at the feral smells of blood and sweat and fear and pain. Running men and women poured through the streets in every direction. There was too much blood for even the torrents of rain to wash away. The gutters ran red.
Soldiers arrived to find the doors of brothels adorned with dozens of small trophies, one cut from each rapist’s body. But every brothel was empty of all but corpses. In the early hours of the morning, gangs of aggrieved husbands and boyfriends tore apart the drugged Khalidorans who had escaped the brothels and were wandering, trying to find their way out of the Warrens. Even the fully armed and lucid units sent to investigate wandered into ambushes. Rocks were thrown from rooftops in storms, archers picked off soldiers from a distance, and every time the soldiers charged, the Rabbits who had spent months learning to disappear did it again. It was like attacking ghosts, and every narrow twisting alley had a perfect place for an ambush. The Khalidorans who entered the Warrens didn’t leave.
That night, the Godking lost 621 soldiers, 74 officers, three brothel owners who had acted as informants, and two wytches. The Rabbits didn’t lose a soul.
Forever after, both sides would call it the Nocta Hemata, the Night of Blood.
Logan woke. He didn’t move. He just let the fact wash over him until he was sure it was true. He was alive. Somehow, he had survived unconsciousness and delirium. Here.
He remembered snippets of Gnasher roaring, standing over him. Of Lilly putting a damp rag over his forehead. Between those fragments, like pus in a suppurating woun
d, were nightmares, garish beasts of his lost life, of dead women and gloating, ghoulish Khalidoran faces.
When he moved, he knew he wasn’t out of the woods. He had a kitten’s strength. Opening his eyes, he struggled to sit up. Around the Hole, he heard muttering. It sounded like everyone else was as surprised as he was. People who got sick down here never survived.
A meaty hand grabbed him and pulled him to a sitting position. It was Gnasher, grinning his fool’s grin. A moment later he was kneeling, hugging Logan, crushing the wind out of him.
“Easy, Gnash,” Lilly said. “Let him go.” Logan was surprised when Gnasher actually let go of him immediately. Gnasher didn’t listen to anyone but him.
Lilly smiled at him. “Good to see you’re back.”
“I see you made a new friend,” Logan said, feeling jealous and guilty for it.
She dropped her voice. “You should have seen him, King. He was magnificent.” She grinned her gap-toothed smile and rubbed Gnasher’s knobby head. He closed his eyes, his filed teeth showing as he smiled broadly. “You did good, didn’t you, Gnash?”
“Yehhss,” he said, his voice rising oddly through the middle of the word.
Logan almost fell over. It was the first time he’d heard Gnasher speak.
“You can talk?” he asked.
Gnasher smiled.
“Hey, whore,” Fin called from across the Hole. He had uncoiled most of his sinew rope and was adding a newly braided section to it. Logan saw that there were now only seven Holers left. “Time for you to get back to work.”
“You’ll wait’ll I’m good and ready,” Lilly said. “I haven’t let any of ’em have a throw since you got sick,” she told Logan.
“What’s that sound?” Logan asked. He hadn’t noticed it at first because it was so constant, but there was some sort of chipping sound and a low murmuring echoing down into the Hole from elsewhere in the Maw.
Before she could answer, Logan felt something shift in the air. The Holers looked at each other, but every face was blank. Something had changed, but no one could tell what.
Logan felt weaker, sicker. The air seemed thicker than it had been before, oppressive. He was once more aware of the stench and the foulness of the Hole—smelling it for the first time in months. He felt as if he were for the first time aware of the sludge covering the surface of life. He was being covered in filth and there was no escape. Every breath filled him with more toxins, every movement stroked more filth along his body, ground oil deeper into every pore. Just to exist was to let that scum be pressed into him, to let darkness pierce his skin so deeply that it tattooed him, making filth forever part of him, so anyone who ever saw him would see every evil he’d ever done, every unworthy thought he’d ever entertained.
He was barely even aware of the noise clattering through the Maw. Prisoners were screaming, begging for mercy. The screams spread and rose in pitch and desperation as the prisoners closer and closer to the Hole started joining the screaming. Beneath the high-pitched wails, Logan heard that clattering sound again, as of iron wheels grinding against rock.
Around the Hole, hardened murderers were curled into the fetal position, holding their hands over their ears, pressing up against the wall. Only Tenser and Fin didn’t cower. Fin looked to be in raptures, his ropes lying limp on his lap, his face upturned. Tenser saw Logan staring.
“Khali has come,” Tenser said.
“What is it?” Logan asked. He could barely move. He wanted to throw himself in the Hole to end the horror and the despair.
“She is god. The very stones here drip with a thousand years of pain and hatred and despair. The entire Maw is like a gem of evil and here is where Khali will make her home, in the blackest depths of unmined darkness.” Then he began chanting, over and over, “Khali vas, Khalivos ras en me, Khali mevirtu rapt, recu virtum defite.”
Tatts was next to Tenser and he seized the man. “What are you saying! Stop it!” He grabbed Tenser by the throat and dragged him to the edge of the Hole.
Instantly, black webs sprang up all over Tenser’s arms and Tatt’s eyes bulged. He choked. His mouth worked and his throat made little gasping sounds. He stumbled back from the Hole, releasing Tenser, and fell to his knees. Tatt’s face was red, veins bulging in his neck and forehead and he gasped for no apparent reason.
Then he dropped to the ground, heaving great breaths.
Tenser smiled. “You great tattooed ass, no one lays a hand on a prince of the empire.”
“What?” Nine-Finger Nick asked for all of them.
“I’m an Ursuul and my time with you is done. Khali has come, and I’m afraid she’s going to be needing all of you. That is our prayer: Khali vas, Khalivos ras en me, Khali mevirtu rapt, recu virtum defite. ‘Khali come. Khali live in me. Khali take this my offering, the strength of those who oppose you.’ A prayer that is answered today. Khali is now a Holer. You will live in her holy presence. It is a great honor, though I confess, not one highly sought.”
Above, Logan heard the sound of what could only be wagon wheels reach the third level of the Maw.
“Why are you here?” Nick asked.
“That doesn’t concern you, though it is my doing that we’re all still here.” Tenser was smiling like this was the best thing that had ever happened to him.
“What?” Nick asked.
“You bastard,” Lilly said. “You made the key not fit the lock. You knocked it out of my hand. You summoned Gorkhy, you fuck!”
“Yes, yes, yes!” Tenser laughed. He held a hand out and red light burst from it. The Holers shrank back, blinking eyes that hadn’t seen light in months. The red light floated up through the bars high above.
Far down the hall, someone cried out, seeing the light.
Behind Tenser, Fin picked up a loop of his rope.
“Don’t even think it,” Tenser said. He grinned ghoulishly. “Besides, Khali’s presence won’t mean death for all of you. You, Fin, you may do very well in her service. The rest of you will do well to follow his example.”
An old man shuffled into sight above the bars. The grate flipped open and Logan recognized Neph Dada. Before the Vürdmeister could see him, Logan scooted into his little niche.
Tenser rose through the air gently as the Vürdmeister’s magic lifted him. He laughed all the way.
The grate slammed shut and Logan poked his head out. A spotlight of red light blinded him, pinned him in place. “Oh,” Tenser Ursuul said, “And don’t think I’ve forgotten you, King. I can’t wait to tell my father that I found Logan Gyre hiding in the deepest depths of his own dungeon. He’ll love it.”
48
Garoth Ursuul was not pleased to see his aetheling. He hadn’t summoned Tenser and despite all the precautions Neph Dada had taken—bringing Tenser to Garoth’s private chambers and magically tearing out the tongues of any servant they passed so they couldn’t speak of what they’d seen—this castle still had too many eyes. It was all too likely that someone had seen Tenser come. Certainly the prisoners in the Maw would have seen him leave.
In Garoth’s estimation, there was an even chance that Tenser had just destroyed his usefulness. Garoth didn’t like his aethelings to take liberties. No one made decisions for the Godking.
Tenser saw the displeasure on Garoth’s face and hurried through the end of his story.
“I, I thought Logan might make a perfect sacrifice for Khali, may her name be revered forever, as she takes her new home,” Tenser said, his voice quavering. “And I figured that by now Baron Kirof must have been captured….”
“You did, did you?” Garoth asked.
“He hasn’t?”
“Baron Kirof plunged to death from a mountain pass, trying to escape,” Neph said. “His body was not recoverable.”
Tenser’s mouth moved like a fish’s as he tried to absorb the news.
“Your guilty verdict will have to stick,” Garoth said. “It doesn’t matter. These Cenarians have not appreciated my mercy anyway. They will be a lesson for
future conquests. Your usefulness, boy, is at an end. The Cenarians are not pacified. You have failed your uurdthan.”
“Your Holiness,” Tenser said, falling to his knees. “Please. I’ll do anything. Use me however you like. I’ll serve with my whole heart. I swear. I’ll do anything.”
“Yes,” Garoth said. “You will.”
On his own merits, Tenser was nothing special. He’d survived his training, barely. But he was not a son of Garoth’s soul. He never would be. He would never be his heir. But Tenser didn’t know that. More importantly, Moburu didn’t either.
“Neph, where is the virgin queen?”
“Your Holiness,” the wizened Vürdmeister said, “she awaits your pleasure in the north tower.”
“Ah yes.” Not that Garoth had forgotten, but he wouldn’t have Neph know how much the girl intrigued him.
“I could send for her immediately if it pleases you to sacrifice her,” Neph said.
“The pair of them would be a nice offering for Khali as she takes her new ras, wouldn’t they?” Garoth asked. But he wouldn’t surrender Jenine, and he needed Tenser to distract Moburu. “My seed, I have… great hopes for you,” Garoth said. “The death of Baron Kirof wasn’t your fault, so it pleases me to give you a second chance. Go make yourself presentable so you look like my son, and then fetch this Logan Gyre. I won’t have him escape from under my nose a second time. I will give you your new uurdthan anon.”
As soon as the door closed behind Tenser, Garoth turned to Vürdmeister Dada. “Take him to the Maw and have him build a ferali beside his brother’s. Help him and praise his work in front of Moburu. Do as much of it yourself as you must. Now send in Hu Gibbet.”
“I’m not sure how this is going to work,” Sister Ariel said. The woods were fully dark now, except for the light of her magic. “If I saw correctly, this form of magic should be especially easy for you to absorb. Just take in as much as you can.”
