by Adam Golden
Enough of this.
Nicholas drew his small, silver-chased knife from its sheath and turned. The big one was still bent over the shattered remnants of the table, and Nicholas saw that there was more to the other man’s scream than bloodlust and frustration. There was blood, a lot of blood. The shoddy table had shattered like glass under the man’s strength, but a shard of wood longer than Nicholas’ palm had been driven almost entirely through the giant’s forearm. Nicholas shot forward before the momentum could shift again, and before he could think better of it, the wounded monster wasn’t caught near as unaware as he might have liked. An arm like a tree trunk swung toward him. Propelled by all of the giant’s pain and rage, the blow had more than enough force to brush Nicholas aside like a child’s toy and leave more than a few snapped bones for his trouble. The Bishop barely managed to pull himself up short and duck the swing.
His pathetic little blade, sturdy and well-honed but still completely inadequate as a weapon, snapped out. The blade barely made contact, the furthest extreme of the tip barely raked across the skin above the big man’s eyes, but flesh parted under the sharp metal, and blood fountained. The drinkers roared in disbelief, the giant screamed in pain and anger, and Nicholas howled his relief.
The big man backpedaled, clutching the bloody ribbons of his face, and Nicholas pursued. He threw himself at the giant, slashing and stabbing at his arms, chest, and stomach, anywhere he could reach, frantically trying to do as much damage as he could. He couldn’t afford for the tables to turn again.
He spotted a big shard of a heavy clay amphorae in the wreckage on the floor, scooped it up and swung it for all he was worth. The piece of heavy crockery exploded on the side of the big man’s head and he dropped like a stone.
A slow clap spun Nicholas about. In the heat of the moment he hadn’t noticed how still the barroom at the Lance had become. There was no cheering now, no pounding on tables by sailors looking for entertainment. A dozen nocked arrows met him when he turned, a semi-circle of hard-faced men armed with sturdy recurved horse bows stood centered on him and Tulio. The manservant stood over the bodies of the two men he’d been fighting, his weapon abandoned, arms out well away from his body, though Nicholas could see the man was still glaring defiantly, inviting further bloodshed.
Idiot!
If the other man had simply kept his calm in the first place they might not have found themselves in this position at all! The Bishop didn’t know what was afflicting his old friend, but the other man had been surly, pessimistic, and brooding, not to mention itching for a fight, any fight, for days now. Nicholas’ orders were met with Tulio’s usual dutiful and immediate compliance, but questions received clipped responses, or even churlish silence, and Nicholas couldn’t recall the last time the other man had met his eye. For some reason the easy rapport the two men had enjoyed for long decades seemed badly strained, and Nicholas found himself unprepared for exactly how much he’d relied on the other man’s understanding and friendship. He even found himself missing Prancer’s presence, if only as a buffer. Leaving the creature outside the city had been the only choice, there was a looming aura about the revenant, a hanging sense of unnatural hazard that drew attention and would only escalate the already volatile situation in Pylae.
“So, you just mean to gawk at me all day, or did you think to say anything before the lads here start feathering you?” The question had no impatience and no real threatening tone. The man spoke as though he were genuinely curious to know the answer.
The source of both the question and the clapping was one of the oddest looking people Nicholas had ever seen. He was large, both taller and broader than average, though without the slabs of heavy muscle of the giant Nicholas had just faced. Nevertheless, he filled the doorway he stood in. The man was simply built on a scale larger than that of others. Obviously powerful though he was, the thick paunch protruding under his bright green silk tunic and the jowls hidden beneath his heavy grey beard spoke of the appreciation of comfort and perhaps mild excess. He wore silk in a half-dozen brilliant hues, his beard was decorated with a rainbow of large jewels suspended from a net of thin golden thread, scores of chains in gold and silver roped his thick neck and jeweled rings adorned every one of this thick, sausage-like fingers. The man could not have better captured a poor tavern low-life’s idea of what an eastern potentate might look like.
The effect might have been comedic if it wasn’t for the obvious air of menace the man gave off, and the very real threat of the dozen bowmen staring at Nicholas.
“I come seeking to negotiate passage to Byzantium,” Nicholas said, grateful for his training and long years of practiced composure. The diplomatic mask slid into place without need for thought, and the Bishop felt himself relax. Negotiation, manipulation, bargaining, this was a battleground he was better suited for.
“Oh my! A proper Patrician are you not?” the gang leader asked with a barked laugh. “Your lordship has quite an interesting bartering style. Most do not start a transaction by coming into my domain and attacking my people. Most offer payment, or at least an excuse why payment is not forthcoming.”
The man’s eyes sparkled with amusement as he spoke, though without losing a hint of the menace that Nicholas was sure never left. Here was a laughing killer. He’d seen the kind before, jovial and even generous, until his mood changed and then he’d kill even his closest associate without a second thought. This was a very dangerous man.
As Nicholas considered the man, he leaned forward and rested his crossed arms on the stock of the strangest weapon Nicholas had ever seen. It was a manuballista. The man was walking the streets of Pylae hefting a legionary artillery piece. That thing could fire an arrow nearly as long as his forearm and two fingers thick straight through an armored shield. It was a scaled down version of the Ballista, the massive bolt throwers which launched quarrels the size of small trees through enemy fortifications. Nicholas had seen them fired a time or two in his life, they were terrifyingly destructive weapons. This one could be loaded, fired, and moved by a single soldier, though usually they were mounted on a stand to be fired. He would have said the bulky contraption was too cumbersome and awkward to be used as a personal weapon, but with a man as large as this one, perhaps that wasn’t the case.
The example before him was no utilitarian Legion device, this was that humble workhorse’s aristocratic cousin. It was all richly polished and oiled exotic timber, it’s iron components burnished and polished like silver, etched with delicate scrolls and whirls, and chased with gold filigree. This was a weapon fit for an Emperor, if any Emperor had ever been the sort of hulking brute who could heft the thing and had a wish to drive an arrow longer than his forearm clear through an armored man in person.
“They all eye my girl eventually, do they not?” the big man said, barking another laugh and jostling the hard-eyed bowman to his immediate right with a jovial cuff.
The other man smiled, sort of, but the expression never touched his eyes, and they never left Tulio for a second. A killer, but another kind than his employer. That one was all ice and menace.
“I suppose some introductions are in order, since we’re negotiating and all,” the silk clad killer said. “This joyless bastard to my right is Vexin.”
The man didn’t move or acknowledge the introduction at all, and his steady threatening gaze never faltered.
The big man laughed again. “Vexin doesn’t mean to be rude, he takes his work very seriously. This,” he said patting the stock of his weapon lovingly, “is the love of my life, the Lady Nex.”
Nex. Slaughter. That seemed fitting. Nicholas had no doubt Nex had spilled more than its share of blood; despite it’s fine finishes it was a savage weapon, and its owner obviously relished its use.
“And you?” Nicholas asked. “How should I address you?”
“Carefully,” the big man said, his ever-present smirk unwavering. “I don’t care for being interrupted, and truth be told I’m not known for my great liking of yo
ur sort, all smooth words and arrogance. Though I must say you cover your contempt better than some. Now, I believe you were explaining why I shouldn’t cave in your skulls and have you pitched off my docks.”
Nicholas moved at precisely the same second that his old friend, tensed with outrage, started forward. Nicholas slid into the space between Tulio and the gang leader with hands open and visible and his best, most winning smile in place. The burly gang boss’ eyes were all for Tulio, and the man was showing teeth but there was nothing of a smile in it.
“I apologize for any sleight, that wasn’t my intention,” Nicholas said, bowing his head. It was just a fractional tilt really, though a good sight more than he would have offered if it weren’t for the plethora of weapons pointed at them, and the need to press himself on the big man’s attention before Tulio’s aggression aggravated the situation further. “It has been a trying few days on the road, what with all of the rumors of troubles and the unrest that followed. My friend and I are on edge and not at our best. Nevertheless, I was sincere in my desire to purchase passage on a ship within your wharf.”
“Ah, purchase! So, you do intend to pay, not simply to let your pet there batter us all into submission and take what you will?”
Nicholas heard Tulio snarl like dog held at bay behind him, and it was all he could do not to whirl and slap the man. He wouldn’t be happy until they were killed or Nicholas was forced to expose himself to save them. The Bishop reached into the purse at his side and drew out a small but very fine diamond, holding the stone up so that it would catch the meager light in the bar. It had been his habit for many years to keep some emergency currency sewn into the linings of his travelling cloaks for exactly the sort of emergency that might see him having to flee a place without adequate time to pack. He’d never needed the precaution before, but thanked his lucky stars that he’d had the forethought.
“We are quite willing and able to.” Nicholas asked, “Will this secure us passage?”
The big man’s gaze had moved from Tulio’s challenging stare to the stone between Nicholas’ finger and thumb. The mockery and danger had been joined by naked greed in the man’s eyes, and Nicholas knew he had him.
“You misunderstand the mechanics,” the gang leader said. “That stone might, and I say might, buy you the right to negotiate passage from one of the ships on my docks. The captain’s payment is quite another issue, from the taxes you pay for standing on my wharf.”
“These two smell wrong, we should just kill them, turn out their pockets, and be on about our day.” The one called Vexin had a surprisingly soft and gentle sounding voice for all of his intense glares and talks of murder, and disturbingly, his opinion seemed to cause a moment of consideration in his employer.
“What say you, your lordship?” the extortionist asked next. “Why should I not follow my worthy lieutenant’s very practical advice?”
“You could,” Nicholas said, “and we would most certainly die, and then you could rifle our corpses at leisure. There is an issue with that plan, however, none of those bows are drawn.”
The big man looked at Nicholas quizzically.
“Not one of you is ready to fire immediately,” the Bishop explained. “Which means that at least some of you are going to die in the attempt. Maybe not many, and likely not yourself,” he said with another slight inclination of his head for the leader. “I’m sure you’re a positive terror in a melee, but if I know my man he’s already chosen out your friend Vexin there for something unpleasant.” That got another snarl from Tulio. “I do not fancy myself any sort of warrior, but your big friend bleeding on the floor over there will attest to the fact that I will not just stand still to be slaughtered. The most practical and efficient use of your time and resources would seem to be to accept what is, I hope you’ll agree, a very good price for literally no work and see us on our way.”
For a moment the room was absolutely silent, the gang leader’s stare was as leaden and unreadable as a statue’s. Nicholas was racking his brain for some spell, some hex that he could cast that might save the two of them without drawing the city down on them, but nothing came.
The laugh was abrupt and booming, Nicholas actually felt his feet leave the ground he was so startled by the sound. The gang leader had thrown back his head and was roaring as though at the most hilarious thing anyone had ever said. After what seemed an age the whimsy tapered off and the big man drew in a long breath.
“I like you, your Lordship,” the jumped-up bruiser declared, wiping his eyes. “You’ve got balls, for a dandy, and you make good sense besides. I find myself in a lazy sort of mood today, and so rather than incurring the wrath of yourself and your fearsome terrier there, I’ll graciously accept your taxes and permit you to seek travel on my docks.”
Nicholas let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, tossed the stone between his fingers to the master of Pylae Wharf, and offered an overly formal bow. “My great thanks, m’lord,” he said.
“No more a lord than I am a cod fish,” the gangster declared. “Seeing as we’re bosom friends now, you can call me Belsnickel.” The big man hefted his massive bolt thrower onto his shoulder and dropped a heavy arm around Nicholas’ shoulders. “Come, let me show you my domain.”
—
Pylae Wharf was like a dozen other midsized seaports Nicholas had visited over the years. Unkempt, fetid smelling, and clogged with dirty shouting clumps of humanity. More than a dozen trade ships, and twice that many smaller fishing vessels, stood anchored in port, and thousands of people milled about hauling cargo, dragging nets, and crying wares from the shops and stalls that serviced the port. Filthy barefoot children darted everywhere like quicksilver, some would be beggars, others would be pickpockets. Those stayed far away from the knot of men surrounding Nicholas, Tulio and their new tour guide, the gangster Belsnickel, who waxed poetic about the wonders of his realm for the entire duration of their tour. For his part, Nicholas wanted nothing more than to be away from the place and never to see it again.
The first two ships they tried were traders headed in the opposite direction from Byzantium. At a suggestion from their host, Nicholas decided to confine himself to fishing boats. The trip would be less comfortable but a fisherman would likely be more willing to go out of their way for the right pay than a merchant captain. Nicholas had just spotted a likely skiff to approach when Tulio’s hand fell on his shoulder.
“Black robe,” the man hissed, and Nicholas went rigid with alarm.
Here? How? What could he do? Surely, they wouldn’t engage with so many witnesses about? “Where?” he asked urgently.
Tulio pointed and Nicholas caught just a glimpse of onyx fabric before it slid away.
“Another on the left,” Tulio said. “And another, they’re surrounding us.”
“Get that monster of yours ready to fire, Belsnickel,” Nicholas said, “your lazy day has come to an end.”
“What are you on about then, your Lordship?” the gangster leader asked.
“The warlocks everyone’s so terrified of . . .” Nicholas started
“Pfft, demons and such, idiot nonsense!” Belsnickel declared.
Somewhere behind them a group of people started screaming in terror.
Nicholas turned back to see the stampede beginning, and to see it’s source, a hundred midnight black ghosts blew and fluttered on winds that screamed like banshees.
“Behold, wharf king. The demons have come to Pylae! Now get ready!” Nicholas screamed.
What Stares Back
Arius forced his eyes out of focus, forced all of his concentration onto the rhythm of his breathing as he was being taught, and reached toward calm, toward stillness. Distractions beckoned everywhere. It was still so easy to find himself gaping mindlessly, even after so long. His master’s domain was not a place he imagined he would ever become accustomed to, he doubted any mortal soul could become jaded in the presence of such wonders.
He was daydreaming again, thinking about not th
inking. The breath that should have been measured and calm exploded out of him in an irritated rush. His shoulders slumped and he let himself be held up by the thick semi-translucent substance that made up his master’s realm. He had to work harder. So much was at stake.
The viscous grass green something that filled this place was, so his master had said, the raw living power that held reality together. It surrounded him, permeated every fiber, the lifeblood of magic itself sliding into and out of his lungs like thick liquid honey, yet he breathed as easily as if it were regular air. It held him, buoyed him in velvety warmth, caressing and relaxing him. He imagined this was what a babe in the womb experienced, though those poor creatures had only darkness. Here he was surrounded by light. Uncountable pinpricks of brilliance gathered into constellations beyond number, they swirled and danced wherever he looked. Riots of varied, transient color crashed off each other in waves, throwing up sweeping auroras of turquoise and violet, of brilliant flame and serene azure. A never-ending storm of luminescent marvels cascaded all around him, and the resinous embrace that held him seemed to hum softly with every pulse and flash, as though the place itself were singing a sweet sighing lullaby just for him.
The old man shook himself and forced his spine back to rigid straightness. His impulse was to screw his eyes tightly shut, to force out the distractions, but that was not the way.
‘The lesson: find peace amidst disturbance, to wring stillness from the heart of agitation.’ The master’s words came not as sound, but as a wave of impression that erupted violently inside Arius’ mind. ‘This cannot be achieved by closing out disturbance, only by mastering it, by harnessing it and pulling yourself above it.’
The light and noise began to blend, the waves of wonder and pleasure, thoughts of comfort, need and urgency, the very concept of self, of doing, it all came together, coalescing and compressing into a single shimmering point, and all around it there was . . . nothing. Clean, empty, stillness. The power rushed in on him like a tidal wave crashing against the bank, and he found himself prepared to meet it. It filled him near to bursting and Arius knew the joy of an empty vessel finally filled, of a tool finally put to its proper use after too long lying idle. How long had he been trying? Minutes? Centuries? It could easily have been either, or any point between the two. Time held no sway in this place, or so he’d been led to believe.
