Ecko Burning

by Danie Ware

  Was this more trickery? More figments? Or was this cold on her skin real?

  She shuddered, tried to gather her thoughts. She remembered - she had fallen, surrounded by the ruin of stone and flesh, by the injured and the twisted. She could see them as if they were all around her still, here in the dark, reaching with their open hands, their open wounds...

  She remembered - pieces of legends. Aeona. Midden city, oubliette. The fading town that’d lived and died on the very edge of the Varchinde. A place for the lost.

  A place that was real.

  She stood upright, breathed deeply. Steadied herself.

  Then she checked her body carefully for injuries, stretched her back and neck. She could see little, there was a stripe of light falling from an arrow-slit, high in the wall, and there...

  Midden city.

  There, in the tiny rectangle of illumination, were the people that the CityWardens of the Varchinde had not wanted. The people they’d kicked under the rug, the abandoned, the undesired and the undesirable, the criminals and the smugglers.

  The inconvenient and the forgotten.

  Amethea stared, heart pounding hard in her mouth. She prodded the remnants with a toe. The floor was a scatter of human remains - bones, bared and brown and broken. Some were fleshed still, though the meat had wasted to a thin covering. Skulls watched her with wide grins and empty eyes, some still had hair even, or glitters of terhnwood jewellery. Here and there were tattered fragments of garments, rotted to grey wisps.

  They were oddly desiccated. Her apothecary’s eyes told her that something about them was wrong, the smell, the scatters of dust across the stone.

  As a bone rolled over, and sighed into brown dust, she withdrew her boot with a shudder.

  Something in her heart half-expected them to reassemble, to get up and come clattering at her with ancient blades and flopping, gaping, chattering jaws... But this was not a tavern tale, a saga spun in the bazaar for trinkets and food.

  She had to move. She had to think. She had to find Redlock and Triqueta.

  Ecko.

  For a moment, something flickered moth-like at the edges of her understanding - something about the horrors, about the chearl refusing to fight, something obvious that she’d missed. But her concern for the others was too strong and she stood up, hands touching and exploring the odd, striated stonework of the walls.

  The feminine cry came again, outrage and pain and fury, familiar this time.

  “Triq?”

  Carefully, she picked her way across the remains underfoot, across the rectangle of light. Her hands reached for her belt-blade, assuring herself it was still there. From somewhere, the cry came again, softer now.

  “Triq? That you?”

  The walls of the room were carved into peculiar friezes, patterns of spirals, of madness and empty eyes, creatures demented that watched her as she walked.

  Then a cry of rage made her pause, straining to see into the darkness on the other side of the room.

  “Triq?”

  The cry came again.

  “Triq? Where are you?”

  Amethea’s eyes were beginning to adjust to the darkness. She could just make out a stone lip about the wall that served as some sort of seat, the persistent creeper that grew into the spirals. Triqueta was somewhere beside the single, sealed door, almost as though she’d fallen there even as she’d entered the room...

  There!

  Amethea saw her, curled on the floor, hands over her head -as if to protect herself from unseen assault. She was screaming defiance, crying and shrieking.

  “Triq!”

  As she came closer, Amethea saw that her friend’s halfhidden face was etched in lines of grief. Through her fingers, Triq said, “I did it all. The fire, the stone, the blight. It’s my fault. I did it all.”

  “Dear Goddess.” Her own figments yammering at her, taunting her with horrors, Amethea grabbed the Banned woman’s arm and shook her. “Triq, it’s me.”

  “No,” Triq said again. She curled into herself, shuddered. “I abandoned my family, I deserve no better -”

  “Triq!”

  But she clawed her hands into her hair, knotting round great clumps of it, banging her head against the floor.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry...”

  “Oh, by the rhez.” Amethea dealt her friend a ringing slap that stopped her dead, eyes wide. “Triq!”

  The woman stopped, letting go of her hair, burying her face in her hands. She shook for a moment, then uncurled, looking up at Amethea, blinking as if in shock.

  “Thea? What the rhez -?”

  “You okay?”

  “I had a nightmare, I think, I -”

  “Had one too. Don’t even ask.” Her lip shook, she controlled it. “Figments, playing games with us. Where are the others? Redlock?”

  “Figments.” Triqueta touched the stones in her cheeks, echoed the word with a short, humourless laugh. She looked around at the spiral walls, the creeper, the grinning and shrivelled death that was scattered over the floor. She said, “I don’t know, but I think... I think they took him away.”

  17: MERCHANT MASTER FHAVEON

  Going back to the market had been Mael’s first mistake.

  His second had been loitering there too long.

  The market was gutted now, a hollow remnant of its former thriving self. Many of the stalls and placements stood empty and skeletal, fabric fluttering forgotten in the sea wind. Many of the kitchens and alehouses were deserted, others stood with doors open like requests, though there were few people around to respond.

  The people who remained were closed-faced, sharp-eyed and wary. The soldiery were everywhere, hands on weapons and prowling watchful; every barter was observed, every offer weighed and measured. Above their heads, the worn stone face of the GreatHeart Rakanne still stared out towards Rammouthe as though she craved the return of the city’s time of legend.

  Legend, Mael had snorted to himself as he rolled up his charcoals and styli in their pocketed fabric case. Legends were stories to be told, and storytelling was for busier markets than this one. Stories were for happier times, when people had the leisure to listen, and they were not afraid.

  He slipped his tools into his little pack, alongside the picture of Jayr.

  The sea wind was cold, and it tasted of winter.

  Mael let down the awning on the front of his stall, and turned to look out at the dying marketplace, a taint of his grey mood flickering at him just as his curtains flickered in the chill. The alehouse where he and Saravin had sat so many times, the stalls where they’d stopped to browse and talk, the overgrown garden where they’d seen the girl that was covered in moss... Every tile in the mosaic under his feet held an image, a memory, there was another in every rise of the buildings around him.

  Sentimental old fool. Mael wasn’t sure if the voice was Saravin’s or his own, but he turned back to lace the last fastening shut.

  Then a noise made him look up.

  At the back of the marketplace there was a commotion, shouting and shoving. There was a cluster of stalls there, still trading in woven fabrics and pottery and bright, wrought-terhnwood art. As Mael watched, he saw flashes of military colours, heard the strident demands of the tan commander Ythalla.

  His heart trembled in his chest.

  Even as he squinted, trying to see what the old bitch was doing this time, he saw one of the stalls tilt sideways, creak alarmingly, and then go down with a crash and a shattering of pottery. There were shrieks of protest.

  Horrified, Mael forgot to breathe.

  Movement made him glance back over his shoulder, and see that the last denizens of the market had come to stare, gathering on the mosaic, faces etched in almost comical horror. Rain was starting to scatter from the grey clouds that lowered overhead.

  It didn’t take an artist’s vision to know how this picture was going to end.

  Dear Gods.

  Mael shouldered his little pack, looked this way
and that for a quiet route out of the market. He was no fighter, and had no wish to wind up in the hands of the soldiery answering unnecessary questions. Then he caught sight of the height and inked chests and odd, inhuman gait of the Merchant Master’s newest recruits.

  Over the mutterings of the small crowd, he heard Ythalla’s voice.

  “The market is closed until further notice. It is the word of the Lord Foundersdaughter Selana Valiembor, daughter of Demisarr, son of Nikhamos, that all traders and merchants will return to their homes and halls, and all their goods will be handed to the soldiery, for redistribution as befits the life and health of the city of Fhaveon. If you are not a resident of the city, you will be required to hand over your trade-goods and depart before the death of the sun. The market is closed. I say again, the market is closed.”

  “Is it, by the rhez.”

  The mutterings grew louder.

  “I don’t think so.”

  Caught like a rodent surrounded, Mael looked back to where Ythalla stood, to where her forces were even now loading the terhnwood from the broken stall onto following porters, and hustling the stallholders away. One of them protested, was trying to reach for a hand or a hold on something he had lost, but a gauntleted fist in his face dropped him like a stone. The tan stepped over him as if he was not even there.

  “Any resistance will be treated as an offence against the Lord of the City herself. Return to your stalls, and hand over -”

  “Bollocks!” The word grew into laughter, scattered support that rose in confidence and volume.

  Ythalla - Mael could see her clearly now, spear-lean and metalgrey hair as cold as her expression - raised a hand, gestured.

  The old scribe winced.

  The man who had spoken, dropped to the mosaic. He fell on his face with an arrowshaft in the back of his neck, Fhaveon’s white feathers dulled to grey in the rain.

  The crowd silenced in shock, the people closest pulling back.

  “Make no mistake,” Ythalla said, striding out to face them, severe and absolutely fearless. She was probably close to Mael’s age, but a lifelong fighter and still fit as a horse. “I do not negotiate, and I do not play games. The next man or woman to speak will take another shaft. And so on, as many as it takes until you heed what I say. Return to your stalls and hand over your goods, as you are told. If you do not fight, you will not be harmed.”

  These people were only traders, the last few who had hung on, hoping to turn success from the perishing life of the city’s trade-cycle. They didn’t have the courage or the numbers to stand up to her, and as she strode forwards, the rain making both her hair and real white-metal armour sparkle with threat, they backed away, muttering.

  By herself, she had enough presence to terrify them. And she had monsters at her back.

  Realising that he had stayed far too long at the fair, Mael attempted to slide carefully round the other side of his stall to where he would not be seen.

  But her eyes were as sharp as her blades.

  “You! Scribe Mael!”

  He could hear the grin in her voice, pleasure like a predator coming across a fat and helpless esphen.

  “The Foundersdaughter wants to see you.”

  * * *

  The Foundersdaughter, predictably, did not want to see him at all. The person who wanted to see him was Phylos. The Merchant Master’s massive Archipelagan physique was seated in a carved wooden chair by a huge open fireplace.

  The fire within had burned down to ash. The cook and his helpers had gone from the communal kitchen and the huge, stone room was dark and clean and quiet. Phylos’s red robes were as dark as drying blood and his face was hidden in shadow.

  “Scribe Mael,” he said softly as the grunts brought Mael to a halt, and let him go. Phylos’s tone was amused, his fingers traced over his chin in a gesture that might have been thoughtful.

  “Merchant Master.” Mael was stooped and blinking. He looked at Phylos through eyes that watered with age and -

  “Enough of that, Brother. You and I both know that your mind is sharp as a white-metal edge. And I’m sorry about your glasses - I will, of course, see they’re replaced. Acquiring such a rarity is the least I can do after the - indignity - you’ve just suffered.”

  Mael had no interest in playing old friends, or in any false display of gratitude. He eyed the fire tools warily, and wondered whether the Merchant Master would torture him himself or if he had an expert on his household staff.

  Phylos must have followed his gaze. “This is Garland House, Brother, the halls of the late Rhan - the fire-tools still bear his craftmark. I should probably have it removed.”

  As I removed its craftsman.

  The words were unspoken, but loud as a shout in the vast, chill room. Mael still said nothing. Phylos tapped his fingertips together and then leaned forwards, his face just catching the glow from the ashes in the huge hearth.

  “Scribe Mael,” he said, his voice now pure, cold metal. “I understand that you entertained the Lord of the City in your private rooms? And that she was unattended?” He let the comment rest for a moment, and then said, “Do you not think that... inappropriate?”

  Mael blinked - for real this time. In the far and darkest corner of the huge kitchen, there was a scuffle and a squeak - an errant rodent, seeking grain. He knew how it felt. In his mind though, something in the room, some image he’d seen from the corner of his eye had jogged a memory, something about the rodent and the fireplace and the mention of Garland House...?

  Pinned by Phylos’s gaze, he tried to see what had touched the tiny flame, tried to remember what it was trying to illuminate.

  “A man of your age and station, Brother, does not welcome the Lord Foundersdaughter into his rooms without a reason. Her welfare is of primary concern to me, as I’m sure you’re aware. Perhaps you’d like to set my mind at rest?”

  Mael had to play for time - but he was no good at these games. These were things for tavern tales, for laughter over a warm nut ale and a bowl of -

  “Tell me!”

  Phylos’s bark nearly made his heart stop. In the corner, the scuttlings froze.

  Mael opened his mouth, almost squeaked with tension, and then somehow found his voice to speak normally.

  “The matter is private,” he said.

  “Really?” Phylos raised an eyebrow. “And what can be private between a man of your returns and a lady young enough to be the daughter of your children?”

  “I have no children.” This was better - maybe he could keep this conversation to some banter of wits. “I -”

  “You will address me as ‘My Lord Seneschal’.” Phylos smiled. “It’s not quite accurate - yet - but you may as well get used to it.”

  Lord Seneschal.

  Mael’s heart was in his throat now. Trying to do so surreptitiously, he looked all around the fireplace, trying to locate the memory, the thing that he’d seen.

  “My Lord.” The words almost came out as a question, but he controlled it at the last minute.

  Phylos’s smile deepened and he sat back, his fingertips still steepled together.

  “You failed to answer my question, Brother.”

  Mael silenced a pique that wanted to demand that Phylos address him by his name - and then he saw it.

  On the mantel that stretched above the huge fireplace.

  It was a feather-quill, white. No inkpot, and he had no idea why such a thing would be in a kitchen, unless Phylos was keeping records of his foodstuffs. But it didn’t matter. It was enough.

  He took a breath and wished that he could pray.

  Then he said, “I demand the Right of Appeal. My Lord.” The last two words came out rather more insulting than was wise.

  “The what?” That one had caught even the Merchant Master on the hop, apparently.

  “The Right of Appeal, my Lord. I illustrated the document for a patient, once, when I was still in the hospice. It required me to draw a feather.” He looked into Phylos’s face, though it was s
till in shadow and he could see no expression. “Seemed an odd choice, and I’ve never forgotten it.” Indeed that much was now true, he could see the very wording there in his mind’s eye. “Perhaps I could recite it for you, if you’ve forgotten?”

  Even as the words were out, Mael realised that he’d made a bold gamble - there was no one else in the room, and if Phylos decided to smash in his skull with the poker, no one would be any the wiser.

  He tried to remember how many people had seen them come down here - the guards, the porter, the young man who ran the household, had his name been Scythe?

  But Phylos merely tapped his index fingers in a short annoyed tattoo. However close he may be to the chair of the Seneschal, he hadn’t made that final move. Not yet. There was still hope.

  “Very well then.” The Merchant Master turned, raised his voice. “Bring the Lord... ask the Lord Foundersdaughter if she’d be kind enough to attend me. And make sure she’s escorted, this time.” He sat back, controlled a short, exasperated sigh. “And as for you, Brother, you have neither the aptitude nor the training for this choice of path - I think you’re getting in over your head.” His grin was audible. “Don’t you?”

  * * *

  When Selana saw Mael, she paled.

  She swept into the kitchen, all cloak and skirts and hair and beauty, exactly as an artist might have drawn her. She descended on Phylos with a certain amount of justifiable indignation, but it crumbled like a harvest garland when she saw Mael standing there.

  Phylos had not offered him a seat, and his feet and back were starting to hurt.

  But that didn’t matter now.

  “Brother Mael,” Selana said.

  Her tone of voice held barely concealed fear - Mael understood that he’d played right into Phylos’s hands by asking to see her. If Phylos didn’t get the answer he wanted out of the old scribe, he would get it out of the girl, Lord or not.

  Maybe he was out of his depth, but it was swim or drown.

  “Brother Mael has asked to see you, My Lord,” Phylos said. “He has invoked the Right of Appeal.”