Path of the Outcast

by Gav Thorpe

  ‘Khai-dazaar started as a single ship, locked into the webway at this interspace,’ Estrathain continued. ‘I would send news to passing ships. Some of those ships remained, seeing the value of placing themselves at this intercourse between the stars. Traders came, and I brokered deals between the ships’ crews, acting as an initiator and a confidant. Khai-dazaar grew, as ships became towers and gangways became docks. I could not be everywhere at once, and the demands on my time grew too great. So it was that I had the idea of the kami.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Aradryan, lifting up his goblet for it to be refilled. ‘These are semi-autonomous creations, allowing you to be in more than one place.’

  ‘You do not quite understand. They are fully sentient and autonomous.’ The kami on the couch sat up and pulled back the front of its robe, revealing smooth artificial skin. In the centre of its chest glowed a spirit stone, blinking with tiny starlight, indicating that there was an eldar essence within. ‘There were adventurers who were willing to trade Tears of Isha for information, contacts and berthing spaces. Over many passes, I assembled a score of waystones. With the flesh sculptors, my own psychic power and the aid of a self-exiled bonesinger, I became the kami. Each of them is me. We are all Estrathain.’

  Aradryan laughed in shock, not quite sure he could comprehend what he had been told. He looked at the kami with the tray, scrutinising it closely. It tilted its head slightly and nodded. When Estrathain next spoke, it was through this body.

  ‘Each of them is me, and I am all of them. One divided, and several as a whole. My disparate forms can act in concert or separately as we require. There are many of us now, all across Khai-dazaar.’

  ‘And the answer to what you seek can be found in the Channelways of Saim Khat,’ said the reclining kami.

  ‘That is where we can find a Harlequin troupe?’ said Athelennil, excited. She glanced at Aradryan. ‘There are no others that can guide us to the crone world.’

  ‘You are aware of my price,’ said both kami.

  ‘Three Tears of Isha, when we return,’ said Athelennil, nodding in acknowledgement. ‘We have an agreement.’

  ‘You barter for waystones?’ Aradryan was confused. ‘Yet you said there was no infinity circuit here.’

  ‘The kami are semi-organic and not immortal, and ever there are more demands upon me, so my numbers must continue to increase,’ replied the kami with the tray.

  ‘How many of you are there?’ asked Aradryan. He stood up, placed his goblet on the tray and took up a piece of fruit-based confectionary.

  ‘We do not know, we have not counted for some time,’ said the kami on the couch. ‘Several dozen, at least.’

  ‘If the Harlequins agree to your request, I will be accompanying you,’ said another kami, appearing in a doorway to Aradryan’s left.

  ‘You can leave Khai-dazaar?’ It was Athelennil’s turn to be surprised. ‘I never knew that.’

  ‘We are quite independent of each other,’ said the tray holder. ‘There is not a particular bond to this place. We have never travelled to the crone worlds and we are intrigued.’

  ‘You realise that it is dangerous,’ Aradryan said to the kami. ‘You might not return.’

  ‘It is a loss we can bear,’ replied Estrathain. ‘That is the advantage of being multiply incarnated.’

  ‘But as an individual, you must be afraid of your death,’ Aradryan said, laying a hand on the thick sleeve of the kami who had just entered. ‘If you are each autonomous, the Estrathain that I am touching risks the end of its existence.’

  ‘That is true,’ the kami replied, laying a hand on Aradryan’s as if to comfort him. ‘All things die, and I wish to see the Abyss of Shadows before this vessel is of no more use. It is an opportunity that few eldar will ever have.’

  ‘I told you!’ said Athelennil, looking at Aradryan. ‘You are leaving behind a great chance if you do not come with us.’

  ‘I sensed your hesitancy when you arrived, but in your mind you know that your fears do not outweigh your intrigue,’ said the kami that was sitting down.

  ‘It is true,’ confessed Aradryan, looking at Athelennil. ‘The more I have thought about it, the more the thought of the danger entices me. Perhaps it is just hubris, but there is a strong part of me that desires to truly claim to have seen the crone worlds and returned.’

  ‘You wish to brag about it?’ laughed Athelennil. ‘That is why you will come with us?’

  ‘If one is to brag, make it something worth bragging about,’ replied Aradryan, indignant. ‘We are getting ahead of ourselves. The Harlequins have not agreed to take us there.’

  ‘And we will need to find others who will join us,’ said Estrathain.

  Both rangers looked at the kami who had spoken; the one with the drinks.

  ‘Others?’ said Athelennil. ‘What others?’

  ‘We are going to the crone worlds,’ said Estrathain. ‘A troupe of Harlequins, five outcasts and I are not sufficient for such an expedition. There will be considerable dangers and foes to overcome. Go to the Channelways and seek out Findelsith, Great Harlequin. If he consents, you will find a Commorraghan exile called Maensith Drakar Alkhask. She has a ship and warrior company that is sufficient for the venture.’

  ‘You seem to know exactly what we need,’ said Aradryan, growing suspicious of the mediator’s motives.

  ‘I facilitate the existence of Khai-dazaar,’ replied Estrathain. ‘At this moment, at least a handful of my other selves will be brokering similar deals for others, matching sellers to buyers, suppliers to markets, crews to ships, followers to leaders. It is our purpose to know these things and bring together interested parties in mutually-beneficial accommodations. Maensith desires a contract, one that will pay well, and a journey to the crone worlds will not intimidate her. You desire to go to the crone worlds, and so there is harmony. The unknown factor rests with the Harlequins. Findelsith and his kind are unpredictable and I know nothing of their intentions while they are here.’

  ‘Then our next task is obvious,’ said Athelennil. ‘We must head to the Channelways. Please could you inform the other members of our ship’s company that we will meet them there.’

  ‘As you wish, I shall pass the word,’ said all three kami. ‘One of me will also join with your rendezvous, to help in the approach to Findelsith.’

  ‘That is settled then,’ said Aradryan, with a short, nervous laugh.

  He had become accustomed to the idea of going to the crone worlds in no small part because he had thought the expedition unlikely to begin. Now it seemed there was an increasing chance that he might actually be setting out for the Eye of Terror and his uncertainty returned. He consoled himself with the notion that the whole venture relied upon the cooperation of some Harlequins, who were notoriously fickle in their loyalties and capricious in their schemes. This thought settled his nerves a little as he followed Athelennil out of Estrathain’s chambers. The Harlequins would very likely turn down their petition.

  After all, they probably had much better things to do than plunge into the nightmarish heart of She Who Thirsts.

  The audience waited with hushed expectation, standing in small groups in front of the stage. The performance was to take place in one of Khai-dazaar’s recital halls, where usually poets and singers and musicians would entertain the eldar of the city in exchange for gifts, passage or simple accommodation from appreciative onlookers. Black drapes hung over the windows, blocking out the light of Khai-dazaar’s ever-present artificial star, and in the gloom of ruddy lamps, Aradryan and the rest of Irdiris’s crew stood to the right of the stage. As in the rest of the city, there were all manner of eldar in the crowd, including one of Estrathain’s kami, who watched over the proceedings from a small dais at the back of the shadowed room.

  The lights dimmed almost to darkness as a single figure walked out onto the stage. She moved with measured steps, the diamond patterning of her tight leggings and long hooded jacket difficult to see in the gloom. Under her raised
hood, there was no sign of a face, only a bare silver mask that reflected the ruddy glow of the lamps, looking like distant nebulae. Streamers fluttered from her broad belt, twirling lazily in her wake as she came to a stop a little off centre stage. On her back she wore an elaborate device, sprouting two elegant funnels that rose above each shoulder, gems twinkling on its surface.

  A whisper rippled through the audience, murmuring a single word: Shadowseer.

  Poised, one foot crossed against the other, the Shadowseer bowed, and as she did so, a plume of glittering green and silver issued from her backpack, spreading quickly across the crowd. The sparkling fog drifted over Aradryan, tiny stars dancing in his eyes, the scent of fresh flowers carried on the breeze, filling him with a sense of peace.

  Distracted by this, he had not seen a dozen figures appearing on stage. They wore brightly patterned bodysuits, decorated with diamonds and lozenges, stripes and whorls of rainbow colours. For the moment they were frozen in plateau, each holding a different instrument.

  From the Shadowseer issued more light, a golden glow that illuminated the stage, bathing the Harlequins in its warm aura. Each wore a comic mask or half-mask with exaggerated features, gem-like tears and painted lips, and garish beading, while scarves, bejewelled bangles and headbands swayed and tinkled and twirled. Their heads were topped with vibrant multicoloured crests that fluttered gently as the dance began. As the gold fell upon each performer, he or she came to life, plucking at strings, tapping on small drums, slowly starting to twist and turn, moving about each other with effortless steps. From offstage came the sound of pipes and flutes, whimsical and mellow, causing Aradryan to relax further.

  In his mind he pictured the World as Was, the eldar from before the Fall living in harmony and peace with themselves. For some time the music continued, breathing contentment, while the stars and mists swirled about the stage and audience, growing thicker and brighter.

  Another handful of Harlequins entered with quick steps; they moved as a group through the musicians, passing effortlessly between them, showers of red sparks trailing from fingertips as they skipped and ran, surrounding the other performers with a maelstrom of colour. The music was quickening, Aradryan’s pulse increasing with the tempo. The musicians separated, whirling away from each other, leaving one alone at the centre. She plucked the strings of her half-lyre with a gloved hand, while the Harlequins looked on appreciatively.

  Then, with a discordant rasp, a windharp player stepped forwards, melodramatically thrusting the lyrist aside, the deposed musician falling gracefully to the stage with an arm outstretched in woe. The new musician took up the tune, fingers moving faster, while the drum beats grew louder. The dancers returned, spilling more red upon the players as the harpist was himself pushed away, tumbling head over heels to lie sprawling on the far end of the stage. The pair that had ousted him struck up a duet, their fingers becoming a blur as they faced each other, plucking and strumming faster and faster in an effort to outdo each other.

  The other musicians brought up their instruments again as the Shadowseer’s cloud turned to a darker mist, billowing heavily across stage and spectator alike, swathing the motes of silver and gold that remained. Aradryan looked at the Shadowseer and was shocked to see his own face beneath her hood, lips twisted in a cruel smile, eyes wide and fierce. It was a discomfiting sight; he glanced at the others around him, realising from their apprehension that each was seeing himself or herself mirrored in the Shadowseer’s mask.

  A sinking feeling took root in Aradryan’s gut as the darkness descended. Foreboding filled him as he watched the musicians circling about each other, each now striking up his own tune. Where there had been harmony, now there was discord. Notes screeched against each other and the pipes had become a mournful dirge, weighing down Aradryan’s mood even further. He felt as helpless as he had been on his first encounter at Hirith-Hreslain, rooted to the spot while the performers competed with each other; the music grew harsh and loud while the dancers flipped and rolled and spun, showing off their acrobatic prowess in extravagant style.

  Two more performers had appeared unnoticed, cloaked and hooded with subtle pinks and pastel blues, their masked faces covered with silken purple scarves. Amidst the clashing notes and whirling dancers, they moved from Harlequin to Harlequin, stealthy and sinister, pausing to whisper in the ears of the other performers. Each Harlequin thus contacted paused for a moment, before renewing their efforts with even greater vigour. The cloaked mimes made great show of being amused and pleased by their interference; they laughed silently, pointing at the frenzied Harlequins as they skirled and danced and spun about each other, so fast it was hard for Aradryan to keep track, the display becoming a movement of light and darkness, colour and sound without figures or meaning.

  Feeling dizzied and yet uplifted by the remarkable performance, Aradryan was rapt, unaware of anything else in the room. He realised he too was swaying with the music, his movements slightly jerky as he responded first to one tune and then another, his limbs twitching in rhythm to the different dancers.

  A crash of drums and utter blackness set his heart racing. While the noise rolled away, echoing far longer than it should have done in the small hall, white light blazed from the Shadowseer, nearly blinding Aradryan. Narrowing his eyes against the glare, he saw a figure in black rising up at the centre of the stage as ominous notes flowed from the unseen pipes, low and beating like the pulse of some gigantic beast.

  The figure was a Death Jester, her mask a bony visage, her suit studded with silver skulls. In her hands she held a miniature scythe, which she spun and twirled, its keen edge gleaming in the light cast by the Shadowseer. Aradryan wanted to cry out, knowing what was to come. Fear gripped him as that scythe-edge flashed around the other Harlequins, passing within a hair’s-breadth of every performer as the Death Jester stalked and skulked, picking her first victim. The warning died in his throat and there was frightened, wordless breaths from those around him, barely heard by the ranger.

  Finally Aradryan did cry out as the Death Jester’s blade slashed across the throat of a moonharp player. There were other panicked calls from the audience as crimson specks marred the white light and the slain Harlequin collapsed, his instrument clattering to the stage. The Death Jester raised up her arms in triumph, and then spun on her heel, scythe flashing across the chest of a cartwheeling dancer. More red seeped into the whiteness, spraying up from the lethally wounded performer.

  Again and again the Death Jester struck, until the stage was bathed with crimson, the musicians and dancers piled upon each other, entwined in their last throes, thrashing and wailing. Tears were streaming down Aradryan’s face, his lips parted in horror. His whole body was trembling as he witnessed the carnage, while the cloaked mimes danced with glee, snatching up the bodies of the fallen, dragging them off the stage one-by-one as they died.

  All fell to blackness and silence once more, making Aradryan’s stomach lurch, his ears ringing from the cacophony that had been raised, the salt of his tears on his lips.

  Gentle silver light prevailed again, revealing the Shadowseer alone on the stage once more. Aradryan had heard no patter or step of departing performers. The sound of weeping was all around Aradryan, and he realised that Athelennil was clutching his arm, her fingers painfully tight on his flesh.

  With arms outstretched to either side, the Shadow-seer bowed low, giving Aradryan one last glimpse of his own face as the hood fell, a wry smile on his image’s lips as it gave him a wink.

  He didn’t know whether to applaud, shout, laugh or cry. He could feel his body shaking with expended energy, and was as fatigued as if he had been performing himself, every muscle clenched tight, his nerves jangling.

  With silent steps, the Shadowseer left and the lights returned, revealing the numb crowd. Conversation, some heated, some subdued, erupted almost immediately, the sudden life and vitality of the audience making the display of the Harlequins seem even more ethereal and unreal, like a dream half-forgo
tten.

  Findelsith joined them clothed in his full performance regalia. He had not taken part in the piece, as his role as the Laughing God was not required. His garb was an even more outlandish and extravagant motley than those worn by his troupe. His crest went through every colour of the spectrum, standing high from his scalpcap and cascading in streamers of increasing length to his waist. Precious metals glittered in the weave of his bodysuit, which was worn underneath a jacket with gem-glistening collar and cuffs. His mask was blank black on one side, save for a cross-shaped eye-lens behind which the Great Harlequin’s deep red eyes glittered with mischievous intent. The right side was a blue face with a dagger-like pointed nose and upcurving chin, almost making a half-moon in shape. Red painted eyebrows and lips completed the face’s features.

  A kami stood close at hand. Estrathain had made the initial introductions, having fetched Findelsith from the backstage area, and now remained on hand to assist if needed. It was Jair who had been nominated to speak for the group, and he welcomed the Great Harlequin to the group with a bow.

  ‘Thank you for the performance,’ said Jair. ‘For some of us, it is the first opportunity we have encountered to witness such a spectacle.’

  ‘Your attendance is pleasing to the troupe,’ said Findelsith, his deep voice resonant with a poetic cadence, ‘and I am happy to listen to you. From Estrathain we learnt of your bold plans, I tell you now that we will not help you.’

  ‘What?’ blurted Athelennil, immediately disregarding the ban they had agreed on anyone but Jair speaking. ‘How can you reply so quickly when we have not even told you our intentions?’

  ‘Intentions are always the same, I find, and why should I not think the same of you? Waystones it is, every single time, always the same, and it is so boring. What performance is there for us to play that we have not yet played a hundred times?’