by Ian Graham
Ballas scowled. It was typical of his ill luck that he should be in the care of such a man.
Brethrien cradled the flagon as if it were a baby. Then he set it gently upon the shelf.
‘What do you have to eat?’ demanded Ballas.
‘Many good things,’ said Brethrien. ‘Porridge oats, potatoes, carrots—’
‘What about meat? Beef, pork, venison …’
‘The Four forbade the consumption of animal flesh,’ said Brethrien. ‘So I abstain from anything that has eye, ear or mouth. My larder is bare of all except the soil’s produce.’
On the table rested a linen-draped cheese block. Drawing back the covering, Ballas lifted the morsel to his mouth—and bit down. His lip wounds reopened, streaking blood over the cheese. He chewed carefully, wary of shattered teeth. The stuff was watery, tasteless.
‘Pathetic,’ muttered Ballas, tossing it back on to the table.
The priest stared, his blue eyes glinting anxiously.
‘A problem, holy man?’ asked Ballas.
‘I—’ Brethrien faltered, as if his true feelings were difficult to utter. He sighed, if you crave meat, you may purchase some from the market.’
Ballas laughed—an ill-humoured snort. ‘Do you reckon I’m a man of money? I haven’t got a penny to my name.’
From within his robe, Brethrien produced a purse. ‘Two pennies ought to be enough,’ he said, proffering the coins.
Ballas gazed at the copper discs nestling in Brethrien’s palm. Then he glanced at the priest.
‘Go on,’ said the holy man. ‘Take them, if you truly crave meat.’
Shrugging, Ballas did as he was told. You’re a trusting soul, he thought, eyeing the priest. Or a stupid one.
‘You are bleeding,’ said the priest, gesturing at Ballas’s tunic. Blood soaked the sleeve. Scarlet drops pattered from the cuff. ‘Are you certain you are well enough to visit the market?’
‘I’ll find out soon enough,’ said Ballas.
Yes, I suppose you will.’ Brethrien blinked rapidly. ‘I was, ah, wondering if you might do me a favour. It is but a small thing—’
‘Have you tended my injuries,’ said Ballas, ‘so you might use me as an errand boy?’
‘Of course not!’ exclaimed Brethrien, fiddling with his triangular pendant. ‘I nursed you because … because you were injured and I am a priest, wishing only to do the Four’s work. That is all. I was not trying to …’ he groped for words … ‘strike a contract with you. Far from it.’
The holy man’s edginess irritated Ballas. Every gesture—every blink, every anxious touch of his pendant—scraped upon the big man’s nerves. The holy man was as timid as a doormouse. It was understandable that he should harbour a certain unease: he had, in his home, a bruised, bloodied stranger whose temperament inclined towards surliness and who, even after a period of abstinence, still smelled of alcohol.
Yet the priest’s response seemed excessively nervous. He had the demeanour of someone almost fearful for their life.
It wouldn’t remain a problem for long. Already, Ballas had decided to leave the priest-home. He did not belong in such places. Not even as a guest. Only brothels and taverns brought him pleasure. Better not to linger in the stale air of Brethrien’s abode.
‘W-will you perform my errand?’ Brethrien rummaged again in his purse. ‘It is, as I said, only a small thing.’ He plucked out three more pennies. ‘There is a man, Calden, who applied the first poultices, and who taught me how to look after you. He is a fine soul. Sharp-witted, yet compassionate: he has not cultivated his mind at the expense of his heart. It will be—’
‘What do you want me to do?’
The priest faltered.
‘Come on!’
‘He supplied many things that aided your healing,’ blurted Brethrien. ‘Herbs, physician’s tools … I must repay him. He is not a wealthy man.’
‘You are mistaken,’ said Ballas sourly. ‘I’ve yet to meet an impoverished physician. Like their leeches, they are parasites. One sucks blood, the other money. What does a physician leave behind? Just a healthy bankrupt. They get fat and happy on our suffering.’
‘Calden is not a physician,’ explained Brethrien. ‘Rather, he is the curator of the museum on Half-moon Street. Go now, and you will find him there. I expect he will be pleased to see you. And surprised: he did not believe you would recover, let alone so quickly. You have a strong constitution. He—’
‘I’ll do as you ask,’ interrupted Ballas, taking the coins.
‘You know the way to Half-moon Street?’
‘Are there taverns close by?’
‘I believe so.’
‘Then I’ll know Half-moon Street.’
Five pennies—he felt them in his palm. Enough for an evening of wine. Of ale. Of whores.
If only all thefts were so simply done, thought Ballas. What an easy world it’d be, if every man were as gullible as this priest.
‘Give Calden my best wishes,’ said Brethrien.
But Ballas had already crossed the kitchen and was leaving the priest-home.
* * *
Ballas walked slowly through Soriterath. After the priest-home’s warmth, the outdoor chill bit him deeply. He had half-forgotten that winter was approaching. Soon, a layer of crackling frost would cover Druine. Snow would fall. The land would be blizzard-struck; and the streets, where Ballas slept, would be heaped with frozen white.
For twenty of his forty-five years, Ballas had lived as a vagrant. He was painfully well acquainted with the bitter cold of autumn and winter. If asked, he could describe times of exceptional suffering. On Kranstin Moor, he had slept in a ditch; the nocturnal cold had been so profound that when he woke he found himself bonded to the ditch soil. His clothes were stiff, as if carved from thin wood; his fingers’ skin stuck to blades of grass. Once, in Genhallin Town, after a night’s drinking, he fell into a pond; and for the next two weeks his wet clothes glinted with ice shards. And on the road from Coarthe to Falrannan, wind and hail-blasted, he had near perished from exposure. A passing merchant had saved him. He gave Ballas fresh clothes, and food, and whisky; he stacked wood and lit a campfire, and rubbed warmth back into the big man’s limbs. The gesture surprised Ballas. Not enough, though, to stop him robbing the merchant at first light, knocking him out with a lump of firewood for good measure.
Ballas couldn’t clearly recall how badly, during those times, the cold had hurt. But he knew that he was uncomfortable now. The chill seemed to originate inside himself: it spread out through his flesh, as if radiating from his bones. He did not believe that the cold itself was notably severe. He simply felt it keenly. Perhaps the priest-home had softened him. Maybe his damaged body had become suddenly sensitive to a lack of heat.
More likely, Ballas was underdressed for the weather. The holy man had not given him a cape. Leggings, vest, tunic— they had been provided. But a warm woollen cape, with a fur-lined hood? The priest’s generosity had limits, it seemed.
Scowling, Ballas moved onwards.
He wandered through the narrow streets, thinking of the coins in his pocket, scarcely caring where his footsteps took him. After a while, he found himself in familiar surroundings. He had last been here … how many nights ago? It did not matter. Everything had been cloaked in darkness but even now, in daylight, the taverns remained familiar. One in particular had a place in his memory. Over the doorway hung a sign: a stumpy, rivulet-encrusted candle burning with a red flame— an indication that the tavern also contained a brothel. Ballas briefly recalled his time there, and the whore he had rutted with in a room on the second floor. He smiled at the memory of her warm, fleshy limbs. And the ginger-and-cinnamon scent of her hair.
Then his gaze lowered to the thoroughfare. His smile faded.
This was where he had been beaten. What name had the priest given this place? Vintner’s Row.
Ballas halted, shuffling uneasily from foot to foot.
He did not want another encounter with the stonem
asons. He fleetingly imagined their surprise at setting eyes upon him; and discovering that despite their best efforts, he was still alive. This surprise would quickly darken to anger—as if Ballas had insulted them by staying in the world of the living. They would want to rectify matters. They would want desperately to finish, for once, a job that they had begun …
Ballas hastily went down a side-street, and walked westwards until he emerged into a large city square.
It was market day. The square was crowded with wooden stalls, and Ballas walked amongst them, his eyes open for anything he might spend the priest’s money on. Most items did not appeal to him. He had no desire to buy jars of herbs and spices, or jewellery carved clumsily from oak and mahogany. Similarly, he had no use for cooking pots and cutlery. Or for religious tokens, such as verses from The Book of the Pilgrims, etched into beech wood, or quilled upon scrolls of fine parchment.
He passed through a cluster of fishmongers’ stalls. Their outspread wares, a jumble of cod, salmon and rainbow trout, glinted as if fashioned from silver. He walked by the butchers’ stalls, offering ragged cuts of pork, beef, venison and gammon, all oozing in their own bright juices.
Only when he reached a cooked meat stall did he stop. He ravenously eyed minted lamb cutlets, roast pork encased in a thick layer of crackling, grilled steak awash with gravy … The big man deliberated for a few moments, before choosing a honey-glazed chicken. It had been roasted that morning, and though it was now stone-cold, this did not bother Ballas. He the chicken greedily, swallowing mouthful after mouthful, until only the pale bones remained.
Wiping his hands on his leggings, he wandered to a stall selling spirits and wines. It was a cold morning, and he felt in the mood for whisky. He bought the cheapest flagon he could find, caring less for its taste than its potency. Leaving the market, he began to walk further across the square.
After a few steps, he realised precisely which city square this was.
There was an oak tree at the far side of the square. A huge oak tree, its trunk was twice as broad as that of any other oak he had ever seen. Its hue was so dark brown as to be almost black and its branches groped outwards, like a mass of thick black serpents.
There were human heads nailed to those branches. Three, all counted. They were too far away for their features to be clearly seen. To Ballas’s eyes, they were scarcely more than dark lumps, hanging there like baubles. Curious, the big man strolled over, uncorking the whisky flagon as he went.
Gradually, the heads became clearer. One belonged to an old man. His tiny green eyes were stretched wide, his mouth open as if he were in shock. On another branch, there was the head an adolescent boy. His eyes were bright blue in colour, and his skin was pale, delicate. Between his eyebrows, the stub of a nail glittered; underneath it, dried trickles of blood marked his nose and cheeks. Against the youth’s pallor, it seemed as garish as a cheap whore’s lip-daub.
Ballas took a sip of whisky. The hot fluid swirled down his throat. He gasped, feeling a pain that was both pleasurable and reassuring.
His gaze drifted to the lowest branch.
The head of a young woman was nailed there. Her eyes were deep brown, her hair auburn and curling. She was pretty in a vulgar, peasant-like fashion. Ballas looked at where her neck ended; where the skin and muscle terminated and there was nothing except empty air, and he found himself wondering what her body had been like. Probably, it had been voluptuous; a thing of softness and warmth, a treat to hold. Exactly the sort of body Ballas savoured the most.
What had been her crime? he wondered. Witchcraft? Seership?
The details were not important, Ballas realised. She had been nailed to the Penance Oak: that meant her crimes had been unholy. She had not offended her fellow man. Rather she had, in some way, defied the Pilgrim Church. Perhaps her crime had involved magick. For those who practised the forbidden arts were often found upon the Oak. It did not matter whether their skills were used benignly, or with genuinely wicked intent. Magick was outlawed as contrary to the Four’s teachings and as such, those who used it had to be punished.
But those who did not practise magick also found their heads nailed upon the Oak’s dark branches. Those who blasphemed in a holy place; those who spouted heresies; those who sought the services of a magicker … All of these people offended the Church. And all of these people warranted retribution.
A crow flapped down on to the young woman’s head. It loitered there for a moment; then, hopping lower, it set its spindly-toed talons around her bottom jaw and, perching there, started to jab its beak into her left eye, attempting to prize it out as if it were a pearl inside an oyster.
Murmuring, Ballas raised the flagon to his lips.
Then someone called: ‘Dare you drink so near to the Oak?’
Ballas ignored the voice.
‘Citizen,’ it cried again, ‘do you not understand that the Oak is holy, and your actions are a blasphemy?’
Your actions are a blasphemy. The words’ formality disturbed Ballas. They were not like those used by the common folk. He turned round.
Two Papal Wardens approached. The Realm’s keepers-of-law, the foot soldiers of holy justice. They wore jet-black tunics, each with a narrow blue triangle stitched into the chest. Each man bore a sheathed sword and a dagger. Their helms were polished black iron. Beneath these hung chain-mail ventails.
A young Warden put out his hand. ‘Give me the flagon,’ he said. ‘It is forbidden to drink in Papal Square.’
‘I am not drinking,’ said Ballas easily.
The Warden’s gaze hardened. ‘The flagon holds whisky—I can smell it from here. And you are pouring it down your throat. So you’re drinking, citizen. Now stop this nonsense and give me the flagon.’
‘It’s whisky, true enough,’ said Ballas. ‘But I drink it as a medicine.’
‘A medicine?’
‘It stops me freezing to death.’
‘I have no time for such games,’ said the Warden, tightly. A tawny fringe poked out under his helm. He was twenty-five years old. Certainly no older, thought Ballas. Who was this pup, to confiscate his whisky?
‘Give me the whisky,’ the Warden repeated.
‘What if I refused? Would you nail me to the Oak? Would you claim that the Four—the virtuous, forgiving Four, who love every living soul—those Pilgrims, who traipsed this wondrous land, so we might be forgiven—will you say they demand my execution, for drinking a little liquor?’
Ballas realised he was slightly drunk. He had drunk the whisky flagon half-empty.
‘We’ll make a bargain,’ he continued. ‘I’ll keep my whisky. I’ll find a doorway, somewhere or other, and finish it off. Then we’ll both be happy, aye? I’ll be warm and drunk. And you … you’ll have restored order to the Square.’
Turning, he ducked under the Oak’s lowest branches.
‘Halt! Stay right where you are!’
Ballas ignored the command.
A hand grasped his shoulder. The grip was relatively gentle, meant only to restrain. But it sent pain flaring through Ballas’s bruised flesh.
Crying out, Ballas spun round—and reflexively lashed out at the Warden. The movement was clumsy. The big man’s open hand struck the Warden’s cheek—a blow that was neither punch nor slap. The Warden stumbled, surprised. Then he sprang at Ballas, slamming a fist into his face.
The impact burst open Ballas’s lips.
Stepping closer, the Warden doubled-punched Ballas’s chest. Gasping, Ballas felt rib grate against cracked rib. Another punch drove into his stomach. Ballas groaned and sank to his knees.
The Warden moved closer. But the second Warden restrained him.
‘At ease, Janner,’ he said. He was much older than the first Warden and sported a grey moustache. On his tunic’s shoulder he bore the two red stripes of a Warden Commander.
‘He struck me!’ shouted the younger Warden.
‘This is holy ground,’ said the Commander. ‘If he were in an alleyway, you could trea
t him however you liked. But not here. Not so near the Oak. Not so near the Sacros.’
At the northern edge of Papal Square there was a wall of white, faintly gleaming marble, thirty feet tall. It was so neatly constructed that the individual bricks could not be seen; instead, it looked as if it had been sculpted from a single, enormous block. It encircled a large, pyramidal building, fashioned from scarlet stone. Its height was almost dizzying; two, perhaps three hundred feet tall, it loomed over the Square, and the marketplace, like a blood-coloured mountain. It seemed scarcely possible that it had been erected by human hands; rather, its scale gave the impression that it was the work of the creator-god Himself. There were windows set into the brickwork, arched and shadowed; their frames were crafted from some bright golden metal, possibly brass, but in all likelihood, gold. The walls were traversed by narrow ledges of black stone, upon which a scattering of crows roosted.
Around the main building, there were four towers, each five hundred feet tall. Each of these towers, Ballas knew, represented one of the four Pilgrims. Upon every tower’s red-tiled spire, there fluttered a flag symbolising the occupation of a Pilgrim: a loom for the clothes-maker Pilgrim, a ship’s sail for the sailor, a candle for the chandler and a flensing knife for the tanner. In the day’s strong light, the towers spread weak shadows across Papal Square.
The Warden Commander gestured toward the building. ‘We have to be careful,’ he told the younger Warden. ‘If we misbehave, and we are seen …’ His voice trailed off. He had no need to say anything else, realised Ballas. The edifice beyond the marble wall—the Esklarion Sacros—was home to the Blessed Masters. The seven highest-ranking clergymen in Druine; the seven men who, garbed in scarlet robes, governed the Pilgrim Church.
And because there was no power in Druine except the Pilgrim Church, they governed Druine itself: every acre of forest and farmland, every mountain and every pool and every river, was under their control. And the life of every living thing.
‘Should we drag him to an alleyway?’ asked the younger Warden. ‘Then we could—’
‘We will leave him be,’ said the Commander. ‘He has learned his lesson. Do you live in this city?’ he asked, turning his gaze on Ballas.
