by Alec Hutson
There were other ships, too, scattered among the Dymorian craft. A long, dark cutter, sleek as a shark, flying a flag stamped with the black eye of Lyr. Close to that ship were two large triremes studded with many oars, which made them look to Jan like those insects that skated upon the surface of ponds. And most impressive was the largest boat in the harbor, huge enough that it dwarfed even the Dymorian caravels, a behemoth that wallowed in the water so low it almost seemed to be sinking. This must be one of the famed junks of Shan, boats that centuries ago had arrived from shores far more distant and mysterious than even the Sunset Lands.
The sight of the Shan ship reminded Jan of Alyanna’s strange demon child. That creature had appeared to have come from the Empire of Swords and Flowers, as the symbols of Shan had been carved prominently on the rosewood chest serving as its prison, and the sorceress herself had claimed the same. Unless, of course, Alyanna had painted those herself to mislead him as to the demon’s origins. An interesting thought.
He was so lost in his musings that he did not hear the others approaching until they were almost upon him. Jan glanced up to find three men watching him with the predatory intent of cats that had stumbled upon a baby mouse. Two were large and balding and covered with livid scars that disappeared into the hems of their well-patched tunics. The third was much thinner and smaller, with a frizzy shock of red hair. He sauntered closer, grinning.
“Oi, friend. That there’s my crate your arse is on.”
Bemused, Jan slid from his perch. “My apologies. I did not know.”
The small man blew his nose loudly into his shirt sleeve. “Course ya didn’t, course ya didn’t. Still means we gotta ask for some . . . ah, compensation. Ain’t no free seats on Chol’s docks, no sir.”
Jan noticed that the bustle of activity nearby had stopped; the dockhands and sailors who had been carrying goods and scurrying over the small boats tied to the pier had paused their work, and seemed to be watching what was unfolding out of the corner of their eyes.
“And are you Chol?”
The man brayed a laugh, turning to look back at his two companions. “Am I Chol, he says. Friend, you’re not long for the docks if you don’t know who Chol is. He’s the big man around here, the boss. I’m just his strong right arm.” He tugged at one of his long red curls, then jerked a thumb at the two large men standing behind him. “Actually, come to think of it, these lads here are Chol’s arms. I’m more his brains.”
“Quite the organization Chol has.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah, he does. But running such a concern certainly ain’t cheap. Lots o’ folks need to get their bread.”
Jan smiled, his hand going to his coin-belt. “Certainly. A copper for a moment’s rest, that would be fair, yes?”
The small man snorted. “A copper? Seems a bit stingy for someone with such a nice sword. How about you toss a silver to me, and we’ll all leave as friends.”
Jan sighed. “Two coppers, then?”
“Ain’t no bargaining on Chol’s docks. Set price.”
“Well, then,” Jan said, starting to walk away, “I suppose I must, with regret, back out of this transaction.”
One of the balding toughs reached out to grab a handful of his shirt as he passed. Jan caught his wrist and twisted it so that the man shrieked in surprise and pain, falling to one knee.
“I dislike such strong-arm negotiating tactics,” Jan said calmly. As the other scarred man lunged toward him he let go of the wrist he held and jabbed his fingers into the throat of the onrushing attacker, knocking him backward, then in a single fluid motion kicked his legs out from under him. The man whose wrist he had wrenched scrambled to his feet and took a few stumbling steps backward, nearly falling over in his haste to get away.
Jan rested his hand lightly on Bright’s hilt and turned back to the small man, whose mouth now gaped open like a hooked fish. “Next time, I’ll draw my sword. Still want to try and collect from me?”
The man swallowed hard. “No, friend. Terribly sorry for the mistake. Thought you were someone else, actually. You’re free to sit where ya like.”
Jan watched them scurry away until they vanished into an alley’s mouth.
“That was well done. Nice to see that idiot Gherv knocked down a few.”
Jan turned to find a young woman in a frayed blue shift sitting on the crate where he had until a moment ago been watching the bay, swinging her legs and flashing him a lopsided smile. Her hair was gathered up under a cap, but a few stray red curls had escaped and dangled down to brush her pale cheeks.
“Best be careful, lest he sees you sitting on his crate. It’s an expensive place to watch the sunset, apparently.”
The girl giggled. “He’d have to catch me first, which he ain’t doing.” She looked Jan up and down appraisingly. “I ain’t seen you around the docks before. You come on a ship?”
Jan shook his head and pulled from his bag another of the purple fruit. He tossed it to her, and she caught it easily. “No. Came along the Wending Way, from Vis. Just arrived today. I’m looking for the Cormorant, do you know it?”
The girl gripped the fruit with both hands, then with a sharp twisting motion pulled the rind off smoothly, revealing its white innards. “Sure I do. Follow that street there,” she gestured towards the alley where the toughs had disappeared, “you’ll see it on your left quick enough.”
“Much thanks.”
The girl scooped out a pinch of the fruit’s flesh and popped it into her mouth. “You a minstrel?” she asked while chewing noisily.
Jan flourished a formal bow. “I am, my lady. Jan, once of the Kingdoms, at your service.”
With a grin the girl jumped lightly from the crate and offered him her hand. He took it and brushed his lips against her fingers – the taste was sticky and sweet. She giggled again and dropped into a surprisingly good curtsy. “An honor to meet you, Sir Jan. My name’s Serene. Serene o’ the Tides, if you please.”
“The honor is all mine, my lady.” Now that she was standing Jan could see that she was not as young as she’d first appeared; her legs were long and shapely, and the gentle swell of her breasts under her shift showed that she was a woman grown.
Serene saw where he was looking and rolled her eyes. “I ain’t that kind of lady, Sir Jan, though I can recommend a few nice lasses that live around here, if that’s the kind of company you’d like.”
To his surprise, Jan felt himself blushing. A thousand years old, and still a sharp-witted woman could disarm him utterly. He shook his head. “My apologies. It’s been a long and lonely journey.”
Serene leaned forward and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “Well, you’ve arrived,” she said, her lips quirking. “Welcome to Herath. I think I’ll have to come hear you play at the Cormorant one of these evenings. I hope you’re good.”
The bells. He still dreamed of the bells.
Senacus’s steel-shod boots rang on the temple floor, seemingly in time with the deep tolling of a distant bell. So much of this place was indelibly etched into his memory – the endless expanses of pink marble, the haze of incense clouding the air, the pristine white robes of mendicants as they scurried about – but it was the bells that truly brought him back to his youth in these halls. They always seemed to be ringing, somewhere. Calling the faithful to prayer, usually, though they also rang for meals and deaths and births and holy days and study sessions and Cleansings. He realized now, many years late, that the true purpose of the bells was to remind everyone in the temple that Ama was always present, always watching. Sometimes literally.
Senacus glanced up at the Aspects staring down at him from their niches carved high in the walls. Joy, Rage, Grief, Lust, Compassion, Fear, Curiosity, Love, and Hate. The nine facets of Ama, the nine qualities He had imbued in His children, the sparks of godhood that separated man from the animals. Senacus’s eyes were drawn to a shrouded
statue with outflung arms, the most common representation of Compassion. It was the Aspect he had always tried to shelter in his heart and allow to guide his actions, even when confronted by the enemies of the faith; others among the Pure drew strength from Hate, or Rage, or Grief . . . but not him. And it might have cost him his life.
But what was done was done. He could not change his actions now – and he wasn’t sure, honestly, if he would, even if such a thing was possible. Yes, he had saved the life of a sorcerer, an unthinkable crime for one of Ama’s paladins. But he had rescued him from a much more ancient and evil magic. Did that not count for something, on whatever scales were being used to decide his fate?
To his right the wall with its images of the Aspects ended, allowing Senacus to look down between pillars at a large courtyard garden. He paused for a moment, leaning on the balustrade, enjoying the play of sunlight on his face after too many days spent inside the temple. A path of ceramic tiles was sunk into the soft earth below, wending between dripping ferns and colorful blossoms. Stone benches were scattered about for visitors to rest on; most clustered around the small pond at the garden’s heart. From his vantage above, Senacus could see what looked like a smear of orange and white twisting beneath the pond’s surface – a school of the koi fish that were stocked in the temple’s gardens as food for Ama’s tame holy birds. One of them was there now, Senacus realized, so still and silent it nearly blended with the spray of reeds and cat o’ nine tails surrounding it. The heron’s long neck was angled up, watching him. Senacus nodded in greeting. He almost felt like he should apologize to the birds of the temple – when he had been a neophyte here he had been tasked with scraping the heron’s droppings from the galleries and gardens, and he had held such a sullen dislike for them, even at times doubting their holiness. But now he knew it to be true. One of these birds had crashed through a window in the imperial audience chamber to warn the emperor of a sorcerous assassin. Great events were stirring in the world when Ama intervened directly in the lives of mortals, the Tractate was clear on this. Were his actions beneath the cursed city somehow a part of whatever was unfolding? Would he be remembered as a hero, or as a traitor to the faith?
He would find out soon enough.
With some effort Senacus pulled himself away from the balustrade and resumed walking. He could not be late. Even if it was to his own execution.
Around him the rosy blush faded from the marble floor and pillars, until he walked down a hall of unblemished white stone. Nowhere else in the world had Senacus seen marble that was not the least bit stained or cracked – only here, in the inner sanctum of Ama’s paladins. It had been many years since he had strode these halls, but nothing seemed to have changed. That arched passage led to the barracks, dozens and dozens of small stone cells that could house every member of the Pure if they were all ordered to return to the holy city. Senacus had his own tiny room there, just a cot and a chest to store his few meager possessions, but he hadn’t even visited once since he had arrived in Menekar two days ago. He had immediately gone to confess to the High Mendicant of his sins, then had spent the rest of his time in meditative prayer, waiting for these summons.
He turned a corner and was there, at the door to the High Seneschal’s quarters. One of his brothers stood guard outside, still as a statue, flashing eyes staring straight ahead. He was one of the palace Pure, as like all the other paladins who served the emperor directly he had shaved the silver hair that had resulted from his Cleansing, and now gleaming copper tattoos laced his scalp. He was also young, and must have been elevated to the brotherhood while Senacus had been across the Spine of the Bones, as he did not know him.
“Greetings, brother. I have been summoned by the High Seneschal.”
The Pure did not glance at him, but he swung the door open. “He is waiting for you, brother.”
Senacus nodded slightly in thanks and stepped inside, with some effort keeping himself from wincing as the door clanged shut behind him.
The room where the High Seneschal met with guests was decorated sparsely, reflecting the vows of poverty taken by the paladins of Ama. A large bronze sunburst was affixed to the far wall, rough-hewn as if forged by a smith of very little skill, and next to that ancient holy symbol of Ama a sword of pale white metal hung. Beside that sword was another of slightly different make, and then another, and another, until the circular room was very nearly wrapped by a crown of blades. These were the swords of all those who had served as High Seneschal over the past two thousand years, and Senacus found his heart beating fast in the presence of such history.
In the center of the room was a simple table carved from some white wood, large enough for a dozen chairs to fit around. But today there were only two, and both were occupied.
The High Seneschal rose as he entered. He was an old man, but still tall and straight-backed, and he wore the same cuirass of white-enameled scales that all the Pure clad themselves in when they strode out in the world to contest with the enemies of Ama. His eyes did not shine with the blazing radiance of youth; their glow had faded over the long decades and now gleamed nacreous, reminding Senacus of the pearly luster of a sea-thing’s shell. Senacus knew that this did not mean that the High Seneschal’s strength was waning, or that he had lost Ama’s favor. How the light of their lord manifested itself changed during the seasons of a man’s life, but even in the fading days of winter Ama’s gift lost none of its potency.
The other man in the room stayed seated, watching him without expression. Senacus had only a moment to glance at him before he dropped to one knee and bowed his head respectfully towards the High Seneschal. The man was some indeterminate age, his skin pale and unlined, thick black ringlets tumbling to his shoulders. He was dressed in black, all the more striking given the contrast to the room’s unblemished marble walls and furniture of pale white wood.
“Rise, my brother.” The High Seneschal’s voice was as deep and sonorous as the temple’s great bell.
“Ama’s light be with you,” Senacus said as he stood again.
“And with you,” the High Seneschal finished the ritual greeting, lowering himself into his chair. He regarded Senacus for a long moment over steepled hands. “Many years you’ve been outside, brother. How long?”
“Five years.”
“And Ama has blessed your efforts. Seven of the tainted he has revealed to you. Four you sent here to be Cleansed, and three entered the Golden City with souls unsullied by sorcery. The last has joined our brotherhood as a neophyte, and has taken the name Septimus, in honor of you.”
Senacus had not known that, and it gladdened his heart. He had thought when he’d sent back the baker’s boy that there was a chance Ama might favor the lad. There had been an innocence to him, a purity that those that survived their Cleansings often possessed.
“Tell me of the fifth you found.”
Senacus swallowed, remembering chamber upon chamber of horrors beneath a manse in Theris. Walls that sweated blood, tiny blackened corpses.
“A sorcerer, full in his powers. I do not know where he gained his knowledge, but it appeared to me that generations of his family had kept the traditions of blood magic alive in catacombs carved below his family’s ancestral manse. He was a rich merchant in Theris, from a long and distinguished lineage, and had been known for his kindness and generosity toward the orphans of the city. I found many of their remains that day. They had suffered horribly.”
“Then you did a great thing, ridding the world of this foulness.”
Senacus said nothing, but inclined his head in agreement. “Ama guided me, brother. I felt his presence with me that day.”
The High Seneschal drummed his fingers on the table’s wood. “And did you feel his presence when you gave up the sixth tainted one you found to the seventh, a fully-fledged sorcerer?”
A hot flush of shame darkened his cheeks. “I did what I thought I had to do to save the lives of the m
en with me. Followers of Ama had accompanied me to the village where I found the boy, local men with no real skill at arms. We were ambushed on the road back by a host of trained soldiers. Many innocents would have been killed if I’d resisted the sorcerer at that time. I thought it best to let them leave with the child, then follow and wait for an opportune moment to take him back. Perhaps even the chance to confront the sorcerer directly would arise if I could separate him from his guards. I had his scent after our first encounter; he could not escape me.”
“And yet instead you saved his life.”
Senacus opened his mouth, readying his justifications for his actions, but then thought better. “I did,” he said simply.
“The wizard disturbed some dark sorcery that had long lurked in the ruins of Uthmala.”
“Yes.”
“He would have been destroyed.”
“Yes.”
The High Seneschal leaned forward, his eyes flashing iridescent. “But why do we care if one evil consumes another?”
Senacus had no answer for this. After a long silence he swallowed away the dryness in his throat. “I accept whatever punishment Ama believes is just.”
The High Seneschal sat back, sighing. “If the High Mendicant had left this decision to me alone, I would have ordered you to open your veins across the radiant altar. You were given Ama’s most precious gift, and you squandered it by saving the lives of those who would burn the world for their own selfish ends. I cannot forgive this.”
