The Song of Phaid the Gambler

by Mick Farren

  Phaid's slumber may have been deep and well deserved, but dim and threatening shapes gathered in his uncon­scious causing him to twitch and whimper. Finally they merged and coalesced into one clear picture. It was a poor section of the city. The particular street was narrow and dark, little more than an alley. A single light in a window reflected on wet cobbles. A thin sickly mist hugged the ground. Everything was deathly quiet. Phaid seemed to be just an observer. In some dreams he was an active participant but this didn't seem to be one of them. He was nothing more than a disembodied, watching spirit.

  For what appeared to be a very long time, nothing happened. Then, of all people, Makartur appeared out of the darkness. Even in the depths of sleep, Phaid stirred in the grip of profound unease and muttered softly. There was something measured and wary in the warrior's stride, as though he sensed danger or the possibility of some sudden assault. The thumb of his right hand was hooked around the butt of his blaster. Makartur walked nearly the full length of the alley, then he paused. He quickly looked both ways; he seemed to be checking that no one was either following or watching him, then he ducked swiftly through an archway. The presence of the dreaming Phaid drifted after him.

  Beyond the arch was a flight of steps leading down to a lower level. The stairwell was barely lit by a single, aged, parchment yellow glo-globe set high in a cresset. At the foot of the stairs was a short passage. It ended in a formidable looking door of black wood, studded with iron nails and secured by a massive lock and huge curlicued hinges. The warren of buildings was clearly a very ancient part of the city. The door even had an old fashioned knocker, a heavy steel ring held in the mouth of some fierce and mythical beast. Makartur once again looked behind him and then grasped the ring. He rapped twice, then he paused and rapped three more times in quick succession. He paused slightly longer and then repeated the entire sequence.

  From behind the door came the noise of bolts being pulled back. The door opened a crack, still secured against unwanted intrusion by a length of stout chain. A voice came from within. A question was asked in some gruff, guttural language. Makartur replied in the same tongue. As he spoke he flipped a small leather charm bag from inside his tunic. He held it up for inspection. It was the thing to which Phaid had seen him making his devotions that first night on the crawler. Makartur must have spoken the correct responses because the door swung to for a moment, the chain was removed and it reopened, just wide enough to let Makartur slip inside. It slammed nastily behind him.

  A figure in a brown robe and hood bowed deeply. His arms were folded in front of him, his hands concealed inside wide sleeves.

  'I must apologise for posing the question and using the old tongue before you had even crossed our threshold.'

  Makartur bowed in return.

  'It is understandable. I am not of your circle, just a traveller and a stranger in this place.'

  'I'm afraid that the priests of the heresy have been infected by the same madness that grips this whole city. They seemed determined to stamp us out. All through the Republic, hundreds of the faithful have been dragged to the dungeons and torture chambers of the heretics. Their spies infiltrate our circles, and squads of armed militants search out and destroy our temples. We have lost three from this very circle in the last month. We'll not see them again.'

  Makartur was becoming a little impatient with the litany of despair.

  'I am no spy and I am no heretic. I have come here to approach the first gate and seek the knowledge of my ancestors.'

  'These are harsh times.'

  Makartur sniffed rudely.

  'Harsh times are sent by our ancestors and our gods in order to strengthen us. We meet them with fortitude, not with whining and complaint.'

  Makartur was a warrior, he had no time for the furtiveness and fear of these city weaklings, even if they did share a common religion. He looked around what was obviously an ante-room of the underground temple. It was a place of browns and greys. Two more robed figures stood against the bare stone wall. A smoky brazier burned in one corner and the air was thick with incense. Beside the brazier was a statue of Aggea, the baleful mother deity who, according to legend, had eaten all her husbands and all but one of her offspring. The sole survivor was Godking Braku, whose image would be in the main temple. The light in the ante-room came from a hundred or more candles that seemed to have been placed on nearly every flat surface. The ceiling was blackened with soot and cascades of congealed wax hung from every candlestick. Piles of mouldering books littered the walls and heaped up in the corners. The atmosphere was one of a church that had once been venerable and spacious but which was now compressed and driven into dim and claustrophobic underground tunnels. The temple elder in the robe spoke coldly. He was obviously offended at Makartur's blunt arrogance.

  'Have you prepared yourself for receipt of the know­ledge you seek?'

  Makartur nodded. 'Aye.'

  'And have you prepared yourself for the ordeal of seeking?'

  'Aye. I have meditated. I have meditated for long days.'

  'Then there is no reason why you should not begin your journey into night, your conduct to the first gate of death.'

  Makartur's face was grim.

  'None whatever.'

  The other two robed figures moved forward. One set a small, three-legged stool beside Makartur. The other helped him remove his tunic and strip to the waist. He was seated on the stool and cold water was brought in a small silver bowl. The elder stood in front of Phaid and watched while his two assistants gently and ritualistically cleansed the warrior's arms and torso. Once the process was completed, the elder stretched out his hand. Almost absent-mindedly he traced one of the more obvious scars that criss-crossed the warrior's shoulders, then he caught himself and became more businesslike. He held out his hands to one of the assistants who passed him a heavy copper jar. It contained a dark green ointment that he proceeded to rub on to Makatur's body.

  Makartur's eyelids began to drop. The ointment con­tained a powerful hypnotic herb that was supposed to free the user's mind and make possible his or her journey to the edge of the spirit world. When the anointing was finished, the elder stepped back and asked Makartur a series of ritual questions in the old tongue. Makartur gave the proper responses, then one of the assistants handed him a silver chalice filled with a dark red wine that had been infused with more natural hallucinogens. Makartur's motor responses seemed to be slipping away. A small bead of wine ran out the corner of his mouth and trickled down into his beard. The elder asked a more lengthy and complicated question. This time Makartur could only just slur his way through the response. Sweat was running down into his eyebrows and streaking the green paste that coated his chest. His eyes were nearly shut. The pupils were little more than pinpoints. With some difficulty the two assistants helped Makartur to his feet. The elder opened another black wood door. It led to the inner area of the temple.

  The inner area was small, another rabbit warren room just like the first one. It was, however, cleaner and less cluttered, the stone walls were hidden behind black drapes. Facing the door was a small, plain wood altar that bore a short, unsheathed dagger, a tall red, lit candle, a growing plant with small red flowers and a statue of Braku the god king. The floor was also black. A large white circle was painted just in front of the altar. Behind the circle there was a pattern of stars in gold. The illusion was one of supernatural power but, on close examination, the temple had the makeshift, temporary look, the kind of look that had to be expected in a church that had been forced underground.

  Makartur was taken to the centre of the circle. He sank to a kneeling position. For a moment it seemed as though he was going to fall but then he righted himself and remained on his knees, just swaying slightly. The two assistants left the room. The elder remained facing the statue of Braku. When the door closed, he bowed low, then, straightening up, he faced the angry, glowering face of the bronze image of the god king. Flatteringly, he started to talk directly to the idol in the old tong
ue. The idol seemed to watch him impassively, a pair of long fangs extended over his petulant lower lip. The elder built up his address. From the way he moved his hands, he appeared to be introducing Makartur to the statue and pleading on his behalf. The harangue was a long one. When he was finally finished he bowed again and took a number of backward steps, leaving Makartur alone in the pool of candlelight.

  For a while, Makartur did nothing, then the elder whispered from the darkness.

  'The offering! Make the offering.'

  Makartur swayed. He fumbled in the pouch at his belt. With a great deal of difficulty, he extracted five gold coins. Gold coins were exceedingly old and exceedingly rare. The few that were left mainly circulated among the less sophisticated, rural peoples who didn't trust any of the modern currencies. Makartur placed them on the floor, just outside the circle. The flame of the candle seemed, for an instant, to flicker and dim. Makartur looked up at the statue.

  'Lord Braku . . .'

  His voice was little more than a harsh rasp. He had difficulty forming words.

  'Lord Braku ... I am a warrior. I do not have the old tongue, but I am a good warrior. Lord Braku, you are the judge and the destroyer, you are the guardian of the eternal cycle, you are ultimately powerful and uniquely merciless, you are the unforgiving. You know that I do not lie when I tell you that I have never betrayed my trust as a warrior . . .' Makartur hesitated again. This bout of effusive praise seemed to have drained his strength. His breathing was laboured. 'Permit me ... to approach the portals ... so the knowledge of my ancestors, should they endeavour to bestow it, may come to me ... through the first door and help me in my journey in this mortal world ... I beg you Lord Braku ... I am unsure in my path and in my destiny and I need the knowledge . . . aid me Lord Braku ... let me approach the portals.'

  For a long time there was silence except for Makartur's irregular and painful breathing. The candle once again seemed to flicker and dim. Makartur started gulping air in short swift gasps. It was almost as though he was going into a seizure. Suddenly a strangled scream was wrenched from him.

  'Mother! Mother! All my mothers!'

  And then another, softer voice came from Makartur's mouth.

  'Makartur, Makartur, we never thought that you would seek the first gate.'

  The voice was gently chiding. Makartur's own rasp returned.

  'A man . . .'

  'We know of the man. We have seen how your destinies have been woven one with the other. We have heard your meditations and we have seen how the man disturbs your inner vision. We see how you feel the clash of two destinies. It rings with the sound of cymbals and the road is one of death.'

  'But what of my vows? What of the family revenge I seek in this city?'

  'Your paths are locked, our son. You will not fulfil those vows until death has separated your destinies, and perhaps not even then. Only death can set you free from his. There was a point where too much was shared. It was a sad sharing, it leads to a death in a place of great dishonour and only the strength of a great warrior will save him who dies from the pit.'

  'And . . . who . . . dies?'

  'In all there is freewill. Destiny runs to death, but only the death of one in this meeting. The first will die and even risk the pit. The second will continue on his journey to some other end. If you are present at his death, he will not be present at yours.'

  A small whisp of ectoplasm trembled at the corner of Makartur's mouth. The eyes of the bronze statue seemed to glow as though being heated from within.

  'Do ... I... kill... the man?'

  'If you are not present at the death of the man Phaid, he will be present at your death. You may know no more, our son.'

  The voice was stern. All the mothers of Makartur had no time for weaklings. Makartur's head sagged, but he slowly raised it.

  'Then ... I ... must . . . kill . . . the man Phaid.'

  Makartur, although exhausted, was filled with resolve.

  'I will kill the man Phaid.'

  The man Phaid woke screaming in his hotel room. He could scarcely believe the obscenely vivid nightmare. All Phaid's boyhood superstitions swamped him. It was a wave of age-old horror. He had been there. Makartur had taken the deadly path to the world of his dead ancestors. Capricious ancestor gods had allowed Phaid to witness the happening while he slept. There was, however, an urban, modern side of Phaid's mind that simply didn't buy the mumbo jumbo. It told him it was a nocturnal anxiety attack. Makartur didn't like Phaid and Phaid was nervous of his warrior temper. The dream was just an expression of that, nothing else. It was no reason to drop everything and flee the city. No matter how much though, the sophisticate tried to reassure the primitive, Phaid couldn't shake the feeling that, if he ever ran into Makartur again, he would be running into an implacable enemy.

  Chapter 15

  Torrential rain had moved in from over the mountains. It was the kind of relentless driving rain that came down in straight grey lances. It told Phaid that somewhere one of the wind bands had moved slightly, shifting in its course. It was only a prolonged storm in Chrystianaville, but out in the countryside, a previously habitable strip of land was either being scorched barren by blasts of superheated air or turned into permafrost by sub-zero gales. Animals would be dying, people fleeing from their homes and maybe even a whole town left standing, abandoned in the face of the savage weather system.

  In the city, the rain had come as something of a blessing, at least to the Chrystianaville establishment. It had almost totally damped down the rioting and unrest in the streets. The various factions had taken their revolu­tion indoors to smoulder for a while longer in secret.

  Things weren't, however, totally quiet. Despite the downpour, the Day Oners managed some sporadic snip­ing from windows and rooftops. Police stood in wary, disgruntled groups on most main street corners. Transpa­rent rain slickers covered their red riot armour.

  A few sullen knots of citizens had also braved the rain. They sheltered in doorways, building entrances and be­neath overpasses. The sparse crowds made no moves. They simply stood in silence and stared with damp malice at the squads of police.

  Phaid watched all this from inside an autocab. Rain streamed down the outside of the clear plastic passenger bubble and the air inside was humid to the point of being steamy. Phaid, however, wasn't paying very much atten­tion to what was going on either inside or outside the cab. His own troubles took up all his attention. First there had been the dream and his inability to shake the irrational fear that it wasn't a mere nightmare but was some kind of supernatural warning, that somewhere in the city, Makar­tur was fixing to kill him. After the nightmare it had taken him more than two hours to fall back into fitful, disturbed sleep. Even that didn't last long, however. Sometime during the morning the communicator has shrilled him awake again and laid a fresh burden squarely on his shoulders. He was arbitrarily summoned to meet Orsine for dinner that same evening. A summons from the city's top mobster was something one didn't refuse. It wasn't advisable to plead weariness, a sick stomach, a scholo­mine comedown, abject superstitious fear or the fact that it was raining outside. When Orsine summoned, one went. Thus it was that sunset found Phaid sunk in the back of an autocab, fretting miserably as the android handler made little headway in the totally snarled traffic.

  In fits and starts that couldn't have averaged much more than walking pace, the autocab finally made it to a building with a small discreet awning running across the sidewalk. It bore the legend Krager's Eating House. The handler flipped open the passenger door and Phaid dashed towards Krager's entrance, doing his best to get under the awning and into the restaurant before he was soaked through by the pelting rain.

  Krager's was one of the few top class eating houses in the city that wasn't totally monopolised by the court and the aristos. Its major patrons were the big men in the mobs, successful entrepreneurs and merchants and the more overtly corrupt mandarins of the bureaucracy. It had the deep pile and rich aroma of money. Discreet, peach col
oured mirrors rewarded the elegant diners with flatter­ing images of themselves. The lights were low. Each table was effectively lit by pencil thin glo-bars that were in­corporated in delicate arrangements of flowers. Thick carpet and heavy red drapes muffled the clink of china, crystal and cutlery and kept conversations to the limits of their own tables.

  An android head waiter rolled towards Phaid on well oiled bearings. Its finish was a gleaming black, and somehow a permanent expression of disapproval seemed to have been built into its design.

  'Do-you-have-a-reservation?'

  'I'm meeting Orsine.'

  'That-gentleman-has-a-private-room. I-will-have-to-check. He-maintains-very-careful-security.'

  The head waiter glided away and Phaid stood waiting, feeling slightly embarrassed. Enough time elapsed for that embarrassment to thoroughly sink in before the head waiter returned with two bullet headed humans.

  Their suits were conservatively tailored, one in lime green and the other mustard yellow. The knee length, quasi-military coats strained to accommodate their hulk­ing chests and shoulders. They were obviously two of Orsine's gorillas.

  Earlier in the evening, Edelline-Lan had sent her android Hud-n with Phaid's clothes, neatly cleaned and pressed, and his fuse tube. He'd put on the clothes he'd bought in Fennella because the outfit that Edelline-Lan had given him was too patently designed to make him look like the ever available stud. It wasn't an image that he particularly wanted to cultivate in front of Orsine. He'd also hung the fuse tube from his belt because of the state of affairs on the street.

  He thought the clothes were okay, but he started to have serious second thoughts about the fuse tube. These were confirmed when the first move the gorillas made was to unceremoniously pat him down for weapons. Other diners turned and craned around with interest. Phaid felt his embarrassment go about as deep as it could, then one of the gorillas hauled out the fuse tube.