by Rob May
She took the book to a seat by the window. The library had blinds to diffuse the sunlight and protect the books. Kal ran the blind up and positioned herself so she could keep an eye on the drive up to the villa. When Felix returned from the games, she would make herself scarce.
Until then, it was time to go digging into his family’s past …
* * *
Kal closed the book and tossed it to one side. The sun was a red stain on the western horizon, backlighting the city with a bloody glow as darkness closed in all around. Shouts and cheers could be heard from the distant amphitheatre, as men and animals tore each other to shreds.
Kal’s mind was five hundred years away, though, thinking back over the life of Feron Firehand. Everything she had feared had been verified by the man’s own hand, in page after page of confidently-inked script. She had suspected bloody secrets, but the hero of the revolution, by his own admission, had been a monster, ordering the deaths of all his political enemies even while goblins and trolls smashed against the city walls, and dragons wheeled overhead.
The bloodiest massacre in Amaranthium’s history had been instigated inside its walls.
And now it was happening again.
Kal looked up when she heard the noise of a carriage approaching. Felix was back. What should she do: confront him? Hide and spy on him? Get the hell out of here and warn Ben that Felix was resurrecting his ancestor’s murderous ways?
Then something caught her eye: a flash of light out in the fields. Something else, or someone else, was approaching, and had been briefly marked out by the dying rays of the sun. In the courtyard below, Felix was helping Gwyn down from the carriage. The guard at the main gate was watching them, his back to the fields …
The guard turned too late. The armoured figure walked up to him and ran him through with a sword before he even had time to react. Kal jumped up from her seat and ran out of the library. The ghost was coming for Felix; this wasn’t what she had expected at all!
She took the stairs four at a time, and hit the bottom with a such force that every bone in her body jolted and her jaw slammed on her tongue. She pulled open the front door and yelled to Felix: ‘Get in!’
Felix looked at her in bewilderment. Another of his guards who had been standing by the carriage moved to intercept the approaching killer. The guard raised his sword, only to have his right arm chopped clean off, followed by his head.
Felix made it through the door with Gwyn in his arms. Kal shut and bolted it to buy them some time from the killer, who was advancing on them implacably, a bloody sword in one hand, a glowing brand in the other.
Kal shoved Felix and Gwyn away from the door, and herded them down the steps to the basement. The senator looked frightened and confused. ‘Moonheart?’ he stammered. ‘Who … what is happening?’
They stopped outside the metal door. Above them came the sound of the front door being smashed to pieces. If Kal was right, though, the key to the lock in front of them wasn’t the kind you kept anywhere but in your own pocket at all times. ‘It looks like your ancestor is disappointed in you, Felix,’ she said. ‘Now get this door open! Hurry!’
‘I don’t have a key,’ Felix snapped, hugging Gwyn close. ‘You stop that thing, Moonheart,’ he continued hysterically. ‘I’ll reward you!’
Gwyn looked calm, and fixed Kal with a curious expression. She felt a shiver of fear snake through her body, but nevertheless she drew the dagger from her boot. She could hear the clatter of armoured feet on the tiled floor above. Her weapon was going to be useless against an armoured ghost; so unless the killer passed them by, they were going to get slaughtered down here.
‘Gwyn will … Phanto will aid you,’ Felix said, clutching the child tightly by the arms. ‘Put your faith in him and you will win this fight.’
The heavy footsteps were approaching. A shadow blocked out what little sun filtered down the stairs. ‘Why don’t you give Phanto to me?’ Kal suggested. Firehand bristled at the implication: that the killer would possibly leave Kal and the child alone. His grip tightened and Gwyn let out a small sob.
The armoured figure started down the stairs. The only light now came from the orange glow of the brand. The flaming fist of Feron Firehand hung in the air, and Kal could feel the heat of it on her face. She tried to speak, but her mouth was dry with fear. But then what could she possibly say to frighten off a ghost?
She felt something cold touch her arm. Gwyn had dipped his hand into Felix’s pocket and produced a key; a delicate steel key with a long shank and many teeth. As the killer descended the stairs, Kal took the key and slid it into the lock. It turned; the heavy door swung open on massive oiled hinges, and Kal pushed Felix and Gwyn inside.
She slammed the door shut right in the killer’s visored face. There was a series of violent clangs as the killer knight slammed a gauntlet repeatedly against the metal, but the door was six inches thick; nobody would be breaking through tonight. Kal turned the key and pocketed it. ‘Thank you, Gwyn,’ she breathed. ‘That was divine interven—’
She stopped dead when she turned and saw where they were. Four thick foot-long candles lit a small cellar that had been turned into a shrine to Felix’s child-god. A life-size winged statue of Gwyn-as-Phanto was the centerpiece of a display that included a pile of golden treasures, gilt-framed pictures and strange carvings. In front of the statue was a low wooden table, with ropes at each corner.
Felix seemed furious that Kal had entered his sacred space. But he took his anger out on Gwyn, striking the boy with a solid smack across the face, then shoving him away so that he fell to the floor, crying.
Kal was still stunned as she took in the other items around the cellar. Implements hung from hooks on the walls: wooden staves, knotted ropes and leather thongs with multiple plaited tails. But what were they for? The ropes on the table would never hold a person down … the table was too small—
‘You beat him!’ she gasped.
Kal ducked not a moment too soon as Felix swung a heavy wooden baton at her head. She turned to face her attacker and ended up taking the return swing directly on her shoulder, making her stumble backwards and drop her dagger. Firehand followed up in a frenzy, raining blows down on Kal as she tried to regain her footing.
‘I discipline him!’ Felix raged. ‘I focus the boy’s divine powers; I control him!’
Kal fell back onto the wooden table. Felix moved forward with his weapon raised for a finishing blow, but Kal had the position and quickness of mind to beat him to the punch: gripping the edges of the table with her hands, she kicked out with both legs, putting all the power of her quadriceps into two accurate hammer blows that smashed both of Felix’s kneecaps.
He groaned and dropped down in front of her, then screamed in pain as his ruined knees hit the flagstones.
Kal sat up on the table. ‘So what’s it going to be, Felix?’ she asked him. ‘I can open the door now and let you face the wrath of your ancestor, or I can keep you safe here until we find a nice cosy cell for you down in the city prison. You should be quite secure from any killers in there!’
‘You won’t get away with this, Moonheart,’ he growled, pain twisting his features. ‘You’ll have to kill me now to keep me off your back, and I know that even you are not that cold! I have money and influence, and even from a prison cell I will reach out and make you suffer until my final breath—’
He choked suddenly and gasped for breath. His eyes swivelled madly, and he started spitting blood. Kal watched impassionately as he died in front of her. Then his body slid to one side, revealing Gwyn standing behind with Kal’s bloody dagger in his hand.
‘The bad man is dead now,’ he said calmly.
IV.viii
The World is Not Enough
One of the most spectacular views in the world is when you are standing under the Celestial Gate of the Basilica, looking out over the city. Everything is so close, you can almost count every window, but you are high enough to be able to see everything without hardly
needing to move your head. The Godstair drops away to the Forum, where the Kingsway carries the eye down to the bottom of Arcus Hill, where the Cold Flow splits the city in two and underlines the activity on the Embankment, where crowds swarm like ants night and day, bustling to and from the harbour, where the ocean-going trading vessels lie in the shadow of the ringwall, hinting at the world beyond the city.
The first time I saw that view, though, I didn’t have time to even take it in, let alone stand and appreciate it. Ben and I were chased out of the Basilica, not by angry priests or guards, but by a gang of trolls.
We had caught the salty, fishy scent of one of the creatures while we were catching our breath by the tomb of Arcus and Banos. It had been stalking us all the while we were underground, and now it was closing in on us … only this time it had brought friends. We could hear several guttural voices. Running rings around it wasn’t going to be an option now.
Ben was desperately trying to scribble down the words of the riddle, while I looked around for a way out of the Forgotten Tomb. ‘Here!’ I said upon finding a narrow tunnel that led in the opposite direction to the one through which we had entered. Ben shoved his notebook in his pocket, and with one last look back at the final resting place of his divine ancestor, he followed me once more into the unknown.
The tunnel ended at a stone door: but this one had no hinges, handle or lock. Instinctively, I guessed it was a cover, so I put my boot to it and it fell forward, slamming down on the ground beyond. We jumped through and turned into a wide tunnel. By the light of our lanterns, we could see we were dashing past a row of statues: men and women, mostly old, but some young, all wearing the same crown and gripping the same sword.
Ben’s sword!
‘That one even looks like you!’ I gasped as we ran. The sound of the trolls wasn’t far behind.
‘So you believe me now, then?’ he laughed. ‘When we get a chance to stop, I’ll accept your pledge of allegiance!’
‘Never!’ I shouted, sprinting ahead. The tunnel of kingly tombs ended, and a strange new world opened up: a world of bones and skulls. They lined the walls of a maze of corridors that split off in all directions. I slid to a halt, overwhelmed.
Ben caught up. ‘I’ve heard of this place,’ he said, panting hard. ‘This is the ossuary—we’re under the Basilica! We’ve almost made it into the city—come on!’
We kept going, breathless now, taking the turnings that seemed to lead upwards. Around one corner we passed a priest. ‘Trolls coming!’ Ben advised him as we ran. The priest dropped his books, turned and followed us.
There was a square of sunlight ahead. We bounded up the steps and suddenly we were in the vast vaulted hall of the Basilica, beneath the great golden dome. Priests, people and gods (or rather, statues of gods) were all around us. We charged through them, scattering the crowd like they were pigeons and we were cats.
And then we were through the entrance to the Basilica and into the sun. The city lay before us in all its splendour, but we hardly noticed; we were too busy watching where our feet fell as we plunged down the precarious Godstair to the Forum. Screams, grunts and roars filled the air behind and above us. People in the wide plaza below were starting to react to the commotion. A squad of guards in shining steel armour and blue surcoats were running towards us …
… and then running past us, as they formed a semicircle of spears around the three big stinking sea trolls that had followed us into the Forum. I only looked back once—as soon as we were lost in the crowd, I knew we were safe. There were hundreds of people filling the Forum, more people than I had ever seen in one place in my entire life. Some of them looked even grubbier and more world-weary than we were.
We were going to fit right in.
* * *
We were starving. Ben ducked into a restaurant that looked inviting. He came out shaking his head, though, after looking at the prices on the menu. We left the upmarket environs of Arcus Hill, and found a more modest establishment on the Embankment: Sharpo’s Seafood Saloon.
‘You should sneak back into the crypts tonight,’ Ben said, through a mouthful of battered haddock. ‘Close off the Forgotten Tomb again. It might come in handy as a hidey-hole some day.’
I was tucking into what was apparently all the rage in the city: fried potato chips splattered with vinegar. They tasted good, especially washed down with red wine. Ben had insisted on ordering a large pitcher. I rarely drank back when we lived in the village (and they only served up ale in the White Horse) but it only took one sip to persuade me that I quite liked big city sophistication.
‘Alright,’ I said between bites. ‘Anything else I can do for us? I saw an inn next door. Would you like me to go and book us a room on my way past?’
Ben ignored my attempt at sarcasm and shook his head. He pushed an old brown envelope across the table. ‘No need,’ he said. ‘Remember I told you that the Godsword name still carries some weight here in the city.’
I opened and held up the letter carefully, so as to get as little chip fat on it as possible. It was torn and faded, and looked a couple of hundred years’ old.
‘Anyway,’ Ben added, ‘I don’t think I’ve got enough money on me to pay for this meal, let alone a room.’
I paused with a chip hanging out of my mouth. ‘Then how—’
Ben winked, glanced over his shoulder, then grabbed the vinegar bottle and tipped a large amount into the wine pitcher. He then called the serving lad over.
‘This wine’s gone off!’ Ben complained. ‘Just smell it—it’s awful! I’m not paying for this rubbish!’
* * *
It was getting dark when we eventually found the address in Ben’s letter. Despite its promising-sounding name, Swan Street was actually in one of the less salubrious parts of town, deep in the East End. At one end of the street was some kind of cabaret venue, the Idole Rouge; and at the narrower, less-bustling end, sandwiched between a pawnbrokers and gloomy tavern, was the building we were looking for.
Number ninety-nine Swan Street apparently belonged to a signmaker called Colm Shroomshaw—there were numerous examples of his work nailed up over the window frames. We looked at each other, and Ben shrugged. There was a faint yellow light dribbling through the cracks in the boards over an upstairs window, so Ben hammered on the door.
After what seemed like an age, an unwashed, balding man opened the door. He looked and smelled drunk. ‘I’m closed!’ he snapped. ‘And I’ll stay closed until whatever time I wake up tomorrow!’
‘Bow down before your king!’ I quipped. Ben waved me aside and tried to show the man the letter he had been carrying. I stood by and waited for the inevitable roar of laughter.
‘Deeds for the house, my sorry ass!’ the signmaker said. ‘I’ve owned this shop for nearly ten years, ever since I won it in a bet with the previous owner. You can take your ancient deeds and shove them up your—’
‘So how’s business?’ I asked the man, peeking over his shoulder into the murky interior of the shop. There were piles of wood and tins of paint everywhere, but no sign of any new works in progress.
Colm shrugged. ‘Times are hard, but gin is cheap. Now go away!’
‘The reason I ask,’ I persisted, ‘is because I wondered if you would consider taking up a new career. Have you ever built sets for the stage?’
* * *
Amaranthium’s brand new theatre, the World, opened up three months’ later with a performance of Banos and Ouila, a classic tale of god-meets-princess, god-impregnates-princess, and god-abandons-princess-for-a-life-of-adventure. The play was written by Ben, while Colm and I did the real work and hammered together the stage.
We found our actors by simply recruiting those people who had the nerve to come and express an interest in what was going on during the refit of the old shop. The play was a big success, and the World even attracted the attention of Amaranthium’s greatest living playwright, Terrance Deadhand, who offered us an exclusive run of his latest work, Zandir and Phenolin. Th
at summer was one of the best of my life; we had queues stretching all the way down Swan Street as far as the Cathouse, and I think we were even stealing their custom. I was the prompt, whispering lines from the wings, and also the understudy for the role of Phenolin. Every day I was a bag of nerves, both dreading and hoping for the day when our lead actor would lose her voice.
When the curtain went down on the final performance, though, I knew in my heart that our brief career in the performing arts was about to come to an end. I wondered if Ben knew it, too. Yet, after I locked the doors on the last of the audience, I found him at his desk backstage, flicking through a heavy tome and scribbling notes.
‘What’s this?’ I asked him. ‘You’re writing next season’s production already?’
Ben sighed and put his head in his hands. He looked exhausted. ‘I have to,’ he said. ‘We’ve had a great year, Kal, but we really need to raise our tickets prices and reduce overheads next year if we want to make enough so that I can enter the Senate.’
I perched on the corner of the desk. ‘Still dreaming about that, huh? Don’t you enjoy what we do now? This life we’ve made for ourselves?’
‘Of course I do, Kal,’ he said, but his expression belied his words. ‘We’ve had a great year, but …’ The struggle on his face was plain to see. ‘… but the World is not enough, Kal. I want to raise the Godsword name as high up the flagpole as I can. I want to start a new era for my family … or at the very least put up a fight against the multitude of Firehands who seem to fill the Senate House. Did you know that half of the senators who aren’t named Firehand are still related to the family in some way or other … it’s a corrupt mess, Kal, it’s …’
