by D. P. Prior
Buck nodded toward the restaurant—if you could call it such. Dougan’s Diner was more of a soup kitchen crossed with a spit-and-sawdust tavern. “Propping up the bar, as usual. Place’d go down the crapper if it wasn’t for ol’ Rugbeard. Silly bleedin’ plonker: gets a soddin’ fortune for setting up trade between the guild and the scarolite mines, then hands all the dosh back to us in return for drink.”
“So, the guild runs this… establishment?”
Buck put a finger to the side of his nose and winked. “So, my ol’ mate, you handle the veg, and I’ll hang about by the back door till Magwitch comes, all righty?” He set the peeler on the chopping board and went to peer out the dirty window at the rear of the kitchen.
Albert sliced up the veg with practiced ease. It had been a long time since he’d performed such menial tasks, but he was actually finding it quite relaxing. “What about the tomatoes? What’s Chef want done with them?”
Before Buck could answer, the back door opened, and a boy of maybe twelve or thirteen stepped through. He had your typical peasant face, broad and flat, crooked lower teeth, thick eyebrows that nearly met above his stubby nose, and a shock of greasy hair that had probably never seen a brush. His cheeks were ruddy, and he was out of breath.
“What the shog are you doing here?” Buck rolled his eyes in Albert’s direction and gave an exasperated shrug.
“Look, Dad, I got the bread, like you said.” The boy produced a stale-looking loaf from his coat pocket. “And some plonk.” He pulled a bottle of wine from the other side.
Buck clipped him round the ear. “Ain’t I told you not to come here?” He raised his hand for a more substantial blow, and the boy ducked down, shielding his head with the bread and wine. Buck seemed to remember Albert was watching and turned it into a playful ruffle of the boy’s hair. He gave one of those irritating false laughs and snatched the wine. “Good boy, Nils. Good boy. See that, Albert? Chip of the ol’ block. We’ll make a guildsman out of him yet, eh?”
The boy shoved the bread back in his pocket and puffed out his pigeon chest. “So, I did good, Dad?”
“Yeah, son, you did fine. Now sod off. I got a customer coming.”
A huge grin cut the boy’s face in two. He punched the air with delight and then slipped out the way he’d come. As the door slammed shut, the connecting door to the restaurant burst open, and a fat slob in a stained apron and lopsided chef’s hat lumbered through. Greasy ringlets curled down from beneath the hat, and the man’s face was a piebald of angry sores and scaly flakes.
“Fargin, you little shit, I got Senator Rollingfield in tonight, so you better get a shogging move on with my…” His rheumy eyes alighted on the perfectly cubed carrots on the chopping board, then lifted to stare Albert straight in the face. “… veg. Who the shog’s this?”
Albert gave his most sheepish smile, but he was already trying to process what he’d just heard. Why on earth would a senator eat in a dump like this? Silly he should need to ask, he realized. The guild. It was a gratifying thought. Despite the two suns and three moons, this place he’d landed in was just the same as home: ladder-climbing crooks and bent politicians. He mentally rubbed his hands together. He was going to like it here, once he’d done a bit of ladder-climbing of his own, of course.
“His name’s Albert, Chef,” Buck said, tearing himself away from the door, but still straining to see out the window. “He’s our new kitchen-hand.”
“Oh, so you’re doing the hiring now, are you?” The chef snatched up a pan and flung it at Buck with such force it would have brained him, if he’d not squealed and ducked out of the way. “And why ain’t you diced my tomatoes? What the shog do I pay you for, you useless clump of dung?”
“There’s a deal going down, Chef.” Buck jabbed a finger toward the back door. “Big Jake set it up. Put me in charge. That’s why I brought Albert in. Make sure everything got done right. Thought you’d be pleased.”
The chef advanced on him a step then whirled on Albert. “You worked kitchens afore?”
“The finest in all Gallia.”
“Shog’s that?”
“Near the Farfalls,” Buck said, opening the backdoor and stepping outside.
Chef turned his nose up. “Real kitchens, I meant. We got an important guest tonight. You do good, and you’ll do all right by me. Shog things up, though, and you’ll be floating down the shogging canal, got it? Now peel some spuds.”
Albert forced a smile so false it nearly split his cheeks. As he set about the potatoes, the chef stirred the muck bubbling in his cauldron and dipped his finger in to taste it. “You wanna get on in the world, fat boy, then pay close attention to everything I do.”
Oh, I will, Albert thought, feigning interest while the chef slurped the gruel off his fingertip and rubbed his chin, as if considering how to improve its near perfect flavor.
“Course I got it,” Buck’s voice came from outside. “Here, have a gander.”
“Know what a terrine is, fat boy?” Chef asked.
Nothing like that stinking pot of diarrhea.
“I don’t, Chef,” Albert said. “Is that one?”
“Leave the spuds,” Chef said. “Idiot boy can do them when he’s finished his business.”
Buck could still be heard talking with someone outside. Haggling, by the sound of it, and he seemed to be coming off worst.
“Chop them tomatoes and sling ’em in. See, we don’t need no fancy recipes here. It’s all about taste and experience. Punters love it.”
Buck’s muffled voice grew momentarily louder. “Take it or leave it! See if I care.”
Chef frowned toward the back door and shook his head.
“Solanum lycopersicum,” Albert said, picking up a string of tomatoes on the vine.
“What?”
Buck’s voice cut across their conversation once more. “All right, all right, I didn’t mean it. Take the sodding scarolite, but the guild ain’t gonna be happy. Daylight bleedin’ robbery is what it is.”
“Tomatoes,” Albert said. “From the nightshade family.” With stems and leaves that contain enough tomatine to keep you on the loo for a week, or even kill you if you boil enough of them up into a tisane. “Curative,” he muttered, stroking a stem. “Quite the miracle plant.”
“Just get on with the chopping, right?”
“Certainly, Chef.” Albert set about dicing the tomatoes with his usual efficiency.
Chef’s mouth dropped open. “You know a thing or two about cooking?”
“I’ve picked up a little from some of the greats,” Albert said. “But no one who’d hold a candle to you, Chef…”
“Dougan,” Chef said. “Faryll Dougan.”
“Provincial cooks, all of them,” Albert went on. “Whereas the standards of a big city like this are somewhat more exacting. They cater for pigs at the trough, whereas your illustrious customers—” He nodded toward the restaurant door. “—are veritable gourmands.”
Dougan nodded and narrowed his eyes. “Aye, that’s right. Still, you can learn from anyone, I always say. “We’ll have to talk, you know, share secrets.”
“Sounds fabulous,” Albert said, chopping away with abandon.
Dougan watched on, scratching at his face, flakes drifting down like snow and settling on top of his broth.
“Nasty sores you’ve got there.”
“What’s it to you?”
“I know a remedy that can sort that out, if you’re interested.” Albert held up the discarded leafy greens from the tomatoes. “My little gift to you.”
“Oh, aye?”
“Tea of tomato leaves and stems,” Albert said. “Tastes awful, but you’ll have the skin of a sixteen year-old-virgin in no time at all.”
“I will?”
“Change your life.”
Dougan smiled, a big, brown, stub-toothed smile. “You and me are gonna get along just fine, fat—what did Fargin say your name was again?”
“Albert.”
“Well, Albert
, you scratch my back…”
“Indeed,” Albert said.
“So what you waiting for?” Dougan snapped. “Let’s be having it, then.”
Albert gathered up all the greens and looked about for a pan to boil them in. “Trust me, Chef, after this, you’ll never be the same again.”
The back door opened, and Buck came in holding up a drawstring purse. “Now that’s how to do business,” he said with a grin. “Put him in his place, I did. Wanker.”
“Oh,” Albert said. “So, he paid up, did he?”
“Oh yeah,” Buck said. “Too bloody right, he did. Fleeced the shogger good an’ proper.”
“Well, ’spose you won’t be peeling my spuds now you’re a made man,” Dougan said.
Buck’s mouth was working, but no sounds came out. Finally, he thrust the purse into his pocket and grabbed the peeler. “Don’t worry, I’ll do the spuds, Chef. I ain’t proud or nothing. And anyhow, we got appearances to keep up, ain’t we? Don’t wanna blow our cover just coz I’m minted.”
“You keep telling yourself that, Fargin,” Dougan said. “But you don’t get them spuds ready for Rollingfield’s dinner, the only appearance you’ll be keeping up is that of a bloated water-corpse, got it?”
“Yeah, right.”
Chef grabbed a hefty iron pan, and Buck instinctively threw his hands up.
“All right, I got it. I got it. Shog’s sake, don’t get no respect in this dump. Just you wait an’ see,” he mumbled. “Buck Fargin’s going places; then you’ll learn to treat me right.” He picked up a potato and pressed the blade to it. “Shog!” he yelled, putting his finger to his mouth and sucking on it. “Bleedin’ cut myself!”
ARX GRAVIS
“Nous has shown us the way,” Dave said. He spread his arms to encompass the length and breadth of the ravine that split the earth like a jagged wound. “Faith has led us here, I tell you. Faith and the will of Ain.”
Shader came alongside Rhiannon at the edge of the drop. Her robe was soiled from two days’ hard trek across terrain as barren as any you’d find in Sahul. The skin of her face was raw from exposure to the twin suns, and her mood seemed rawer still. She acknowledged him with a roll of her eyes, which Shader took to be meant for Dave.
Shadrak slid up on his other side, cloaked and hooded against the heat, pinkish eyes calculating, scanning the depths.
The sheer walls of the crevasse dropped away into a bottomless abyss, which made Shader reel with vertigo. The albino steadied him with a pallid hand.
“Your faith’s so strong,” Shadrak said to Dave, “why don’t I just throw you in, see if you can fly?”
The hunchback scowled but then lifted his face to the heavens in rapture. “I have such faith. Should I step from the edge, Nous would send his angels to hold me aloft. What of you?” He glared at Shadrak and then swiveled his gaze to Shader. “Is your faith that strong, Keeper of the Sword of the Archon?”
Shader bristled at the implied accusation. It was starting to wear a bit thin, Dave’s relentless condemnation. For the Voice of Nous, he certainly didn’t seem to place much stock in forgiveness. Or the grace of silence, for that matter. He put a hand on Shadrak’s shoulder and stared into the ravine. Nothing. Just a yawning gash of blackness. He braved the edge as long as he dared and then stepped back.
“Just as I thought,” Dave said.
“Shut the shog up,” Rhiannon said. “Never thought I’d say it, but I’m starting to see eye to eye with the midget.”
Shader’s heart felt like it had filled with ballast as the hunchback stepped out over the brink and placed his foot on thin air. At least that’s what it looked like, until he blinked and refocused. Dave was standing upon a narrow ledge that sloped gently downward. It vanished with the slightest movement of the eyes, making it seem he was gliding as he started to descend without concern.
“After you,” Rhiannon said, licking her lips and swaying slightly—unless that was Shader’s vision.
“No, no. You go—”
“For shog’s sake,” Shadrak said. “Let’s just get on with it, shall we?”
Shader touched his forehead and then curled his fingers around the prayer cord hanging from his belt.
“You all right?” Rhiannon asked, shifting the black sword to a more comfortable position on her back.
“Fine.” Shader tested the ledge with the tip of his boot.
“Want me to go first?”
“Said I’m fine.” He stepped down onto the path, grimacing against the wave of dizziness that roiled up from his guts. He clutched a protruding knob of rock, first with one hand, then with both.
“What’s the hold up?” Shadrak said.
“Shut it, stumpy.” Rhiannon was right behind Shader, and she gripped his arm reassuringly.
Dave was twenty yards ahead, where the path ended abruptly. He jumped down to the level below.
Shader held on tight to the wall and craned his neck to see. The path made a zigzagging descent, each level a steep decline that ended in a drop to the top of the section below. His head started to swim, and the beckoning abyss ballooned up at him. He flung himself back against the rock face, heart thudding in his ears.
“Don’t look—” Rhiannon started.
“I know,” Shader said through a mouthful of bile. “Not planning on doing it again.”
A slender rope snaked down past Shader’s shoulder. He glanced up to see Shadrak lower himself over the edge, rope wrapped around his body and trailing beneath his feet. It was impossible to see what he’d anchored it to above, but it held good when he kicked himself away from the wall and paid out the rope through gloved hands. Within moments, he’d rappelled past Dave and dropped from the end of the rope to the next level. Shader wanted to call out to him, tell him to wait, but if he’d opened his mouth, he’d have vomited. With a swift glance up at them, Shadrak swirled his cloak about him and was swallowed by the darkness.
“Perhaps you should—” Rhiannon said, indicating the rope.
“No.” Shader sidestepped along the ledge, back flat against the wall. “Definitely not.”
Scarcely daring to breathe, he inched his way to the end of the first level and froze. It was only a drop of a few feet, but it may as well have been a hundred. He imagined himself missing the path below and plunging for an eternity before splattering on the floor of the ravine.
Dave was looking up at him, arms folded across his chest. “If you had faith the size of a grain of sand, you could do this.” He turned to face the chasm and leapt.
Shader gasped.
Dave hung in midair, twirling, as if suspended on a string. He threw his arms wide, raised his face to the sky, and lay back. “Do not turn from Nous, and he will give you great power. Great power.”
Shader’s fingers fell to the pommel of his gladius, drew warmth from it. He felt the ice of his fear melting away and leaned out over the edge just enough to watch Dave cartwheeling down a few more levels.
“Deacon?” Rhiannon pressed close to his side, the warmth of her body eclipsing that of the Archon’s sword. “Is that… is that the work of Nous? Soror Agna said—”
“If that’s what Nous can do for you, then I must be sorely lacking in faith.”
Steeling himself, he turned to the end of the ledge and jumped. He landed lightly in a crouch, straightened up and offered his arms to Rhiannon, but she waved him away and made the drop by herself. After that, it grew easier, and Shader picked up his pace, descending one slanting platform, jumping, and continuing down the opposing diagonal, deeper and deeper into the ravine. Dave nodded his approval and continued up ahead, but there was no sign of Shadrak.
Flecks of green sparkled from the deep like emerald stars. As they drew nearer, Shader saw there were veins of malachite in the walls, which had grown as black as coal. Even with his newfound confidence, he doubted he could have continued without the unearthly light. He looked back to see Rhiannon scraping her feet along the path with great care. Her robe picked up the phos
phorescence, giving her the appearance of a sickly ghost. She forced a smile as she reached his side, but her eyes were searching the levels below.
“Where’s the creep?”
“Which one?” Shader said, eyeing Dave, who was once more waiting on a ledge, glaring up at them.
“You know, the little shogger with the pink eyes and the sunny complexion. The poison dwarf.”
Shader chuckled, in spite of himself. “Living up to his reputation. Doubt we’ll see him unless he wants us to.”
“Yeah, right after he sticks another knife in your back.”
Shader winced at the recollected pain. The thought had crossed his mind, too, but it made no sense. “Why come all this way, then? Why bring us here? Did you see what he did atop the Homestead? Almost took out Sektis Gandaw.” Which was a damned sight more than Shader had done.
“Self-preservation,” Rhiannon said. “If Gandaw wins, we all go.”
“I don’t know,” Shader said. “There’s something about him. Something—”
“Treacherous? It’s there, plain as day. Don’t trust him, Deacon. I’ll watch your back, but what if he stabs you in the front next time, as a mate?”
They continued downward in silence, Dave leading them as if the dark paces beneath the earth were his home. Enormous bearded faces began to line their way, carved out of the black rock. Chiseled crowns sat atop their heads, each engraved with flowing script.
“Is that Aeternam?” Rhiannon asked. “The Templum’s reach must be longer than I thought.” She gave a nervous laugh and clutched her elbows. Her eyes were wide, the pupils inky pits drinking in the scant light.
“Aeternam’s been around a lot longer than the Templum,” Shader said, recalling what Ludo had taught him. But that didn’t change the fact that it was odd seeing it here, all the way on distant Aethir, wherever that actually was.
A network of crisscrossing walkways loomed up from the depths, spanning the chasm like a spider’s web. Where each walkway touched the walls, it ended in a stone door. Beneath the web, a vast edifice of jutting spires, fluted columns, arches, and crenellated towers began to appear in the gloamy light given off by the malachite. It was a citadel, built upon untold levels that dropped away without end.
