by Ian Graham
The iron disc fell to the floor.
Ballas laughed—a loud throat-scraping burst of joy … and relief.
He snatched up the disc. He clutched it as tightly as a drowning man might grasp a floating wooden spar.
The disc was unmarked: it bore no ornamentation, no etchings: it was, to Ballas’s inexpert eye, crude, ugly, primitive. But the rubies … he recognised that they must be worth a purseful of gold. And the blue gemstone—the true reason he had lusted after the disc—how much would that be worth? The old man had said it was unique, so it could have no fixed price. But such items, Ballas knew, fetched colossal amounts. He stroked his thumb over its surface. It was as smooth as ice. He looked at its blueness … its rich, rock-pool blue …
‘A candle,’ he muttered. ‘Let’s see what dazzled the geologist, shall we?’
Only then did Ballas notice that the candle was lying on the parchments—which were starting to burn. Their edges glowed orange-red, then curled, blackening. Smoke trickled upward.
Ballas paused before making his next move.
Grunting, he picked up the candle and moved the disc towards its flame.
The stone grew bluer, its light almost dazzling. Within its depths golden sparks drifted: they rose and fell as if propelled by a gentle tide. They sparkled, star-bright. Ballas became transfixed.
‘What man, when offered such a thing, could refuse?’ he murmured.
He coughed as smoke drifted into his mouth. The fire crackled merrily as it consumed the parchments. The flames danced knee-high. Now they were spreading quickly. Streamers of ash floated across the room.
Rising, Ballas looked at the flames. Then he looked at the disc.
‘Whores, drink, a warm room …’ Lifting the disc to his lips, he kissed the gemstone.
He glanced at the fire one last time. Then, turning, he hurried from the museum, and stepped out into a night in which stars shone elegantly down from a cold night sky.
Ballas took shelter in a stable adjoining a tavern.
In the darkness, surrounded by the comforting scent and warmth of horses, the big man curled up in the corner. He lay on a covering of straw damp with horse piss; yet he took pleasure in the squalor of his circumstances, for he knew that it would soon end.
At this hour, on the morrow, he would be in a better place.
A common room, perhaps—laughing loudly, his face liquor-flushed.
Or a brothel, rutting earnestly with a dark-eyed whore.
Ballas pillowed his head on his forearm. He gripped the sack of stolen goods to his chest. He felt the jagged jumble of church oddments, and the smooth edge of the disc.
Smiling faintly, he fell asleep.
Chapter 4
In the south-west ports of Calcarin,
A sailor too received the creator-god’s Blessing.
Refusing the ocean, he took a land journey
Of divine torment, as a Pilgrim,
To gaze upon Good and Evil …
An hour after dawn, Ballas stood in the workshop of Jasreith Logos, a crafter of cheap jewellery.
The stolen church oddments were spread on a workbench. By chance or design, Logos had arranged them in the same order as upon the altar. The candleholders were clustered at the edge, their brass surfaces reflecting the pulsing glow of Logos’s furnace.
Logos was a squat man in his fiftieth year. His face was heat-flushed, and faintly tanned. White hairs curled from his nostrils and ears.
He picked up a candleholder. He turned it over, weighing it in his palm.
‘Brass,’ said Ballas flatly. ‘It’s made from brass.’
‘I do not require your help,’ said Logos, his voice thin and dry, ‘in identifying what it’s made of.’ He set it back down upon the workbench. ‘The hue, lustre and texture all cry “brass”. And if they did not … well, all the Pilgrim Church’s ceremonial pieces are fashioned from brass. Except for those used in the grand cathedrals. Those are wrought from gold.’ He looked Ballas up and down. His grey eyes were as attentive as a cat’s. ‘Of course, such cathedrals are guarded by Wardens. To burgle such a place, one must be a brave man. And I sense that you, my friend, are of frailer mettle.’
He picked up the model of Scarrendestin. Furnace light glinted upon it.
‘Five pennies,’ said Logos.
‘For the model alone?’ asked Ballas, surprised.
‘For everything.’ Logos laughed sardonically—as if Ballas were a foolish child. ‘For everything,’ he repeated.
Ballas had slept well, amid the horses and stable straw. He had woken feeling strong, healthy—and optimistic. Soon he would be rich. For the first time in many years, he’d greeted the dawn in a fair mood. And that mood persisted. Even Logos’s attitude—his rasping laugh, his condescension—failed to irritate the big man. Ballas felt as though he was, slowly but surely, entering a new phase of his life. A phase in which he’d no longer be a scavenger, a creature hurtling from one desperate deed to another.
Because of the iron disc, and its stones, he’d live like a caliph of the Distant East.
Yet he wanted a fair price for the oddments. It was a matter of principle, he supposed.
‘These pieces are worth ten pennies,’ Ballas told Logos. ‘This is church brass, aye? It’s of good quality. Melt it down, and you can make it into the finest jewellery—’
‘That is true,’ Logos interrupted briskly. ‘But church brass is cursed.’
‘Cursed?’
‘It brings ill fortune on the bearer.’
Logos cracked open a window shutter. A cold breeze swept in. The furnace coals glowed.
‘Do you suppose the Pilgrim Church authorities are happy to have their belongings taken? Do you imagine they consider their loss no loss at all—more like a charitable donation?’ His thin laugh returned. ‘They are not charitable people. Nor are they forgiving. Cross them, and they will seize you, and do with you as they wish.’
He turned to Ballas.
‘I wish to sleep easily at night. I do not want to lie with an ear cocked for Wardens.’ He spread his hands and shrugged resignedly. These pieces in themselves are, indeed, worth ten pennies. But if I were to purchase them, I would also be purchasing a death sentence. Such thefts carry a man to the gallows. I doubt that a hemp collar would suit me.’
‘So you won’t take them?’
‘For ten pennies, no. But five … five would be a different matter. Say five, and our bargain is struck.’
‘You’re a strange man,’ said Ballas quietly. ‘It seems that you value your life at five pennies.’ He sighed loudly. ‘But I shan’t argue. All right. I accept. Five pennies it is—and some information.’
Logos’s eyes narrowed. ‘What type of information?’
‘There’s something else I’m going to sell. A beautiful object. The experts reckon it’s unique. I need to find a buyer …’
‘Show it to me,’ demanded Logos, curiosity evident in his tone.
Ballas shook his head. ‘It’s beyond your means. Any man who wrangles over five pennies can’t afford it.’
‘This object—it is of dubious provenance?’ asked Logos.
‘Maybe,’ replied Ballas vaguely. ‘Its buyer has to be wealthy. And uninterested in its origins. You know of such a man?’
‘This is Soriterath,’ said Logos. ‘Druine’s holiest city. Of course there are men who will be interested.’
‘Name some.’
‘Masser Helkirrith, Jorath Kette, Carrande Black—’
‘That last one sounds familiar,’ interrupted Ballas. ‘Reckon I heard it mentioned in a tavern.’
‘That is most probable,’ agreed Logos. ‘Black owns a number of taverns. They are but one of his interests, among many.’
‘Where can Black be found?’
‘He can be approached only through his agents,’ said Logos. ‘Are you familiar with Red Street? Black’s taverns are there: the Broken Moon, the Opened Eye and the Weary Blacksmith.’
‘I know them,�
�� said Ballas.
‘His agents conduct much of their business in the common rooms,’ said the jewelsmith. ‘Find one, and see what can be done.’
From his purse Logos took five pennies. He held them out to Ballas. But as the big man reached for them, Logos snatched back his hand.
‘Do not tell Carrande Black I sent you,’ he said, suddenly serious.
‘He is a cruel man?’ asked Ballas, tilting his head.
‘He is a rich man,’ said Logos. ‘And no man grows rich by being sweet-tempered.’
He dropped the coins into Ballas’s outstretched palm. Then he picked up the model of Scarrendestin.
‘Go,’ he told Ballas. ‘I have work to do.’
Logos placed the model on a metal tray, which he slid into the furnace. The miniature began to glow.
The jewelsmith glanced at Ballas. With a nod, the big man left.
Ballas arrived at the Broken Moon at noon—just in time to place a bet on a cockfight.
A chalk circle had been sketched on the common-room floor. A film of blood already greased the boards. Stray feathers lay here and there, blowing in a draught. Through the odours of fire- and pipe-smoke, Ballas smelled the harsh, strangely unnatural odour of offal.
He pushed through the crowds to the serving bar.
After purchasing a flagon of Keltuskan red, he moved close to the chalk circle.
A thin excitement prickled in Ballas’s gut. Two cockerels were being prepared. The first had a metal spike, as sharp-tipped as a dagger, fastened to its beak. The second had thin metal spurs tied to its legs, each as keen-edged as a flensing knife.
Ballas pondered the birds’ physical condition.
Some of the first one’s feathers were missing, exposing patches of freshly wounded skin. The second, however, didn’t seem to have fought before. It was well fed, glossy-feathered, and bore no noticeable scars.
‘Care to place a wager, eh?’ A brown-garbed man edged close. His black hair stuck up in spikes, and his green eyes glittered. His ears were like a rat’s: pink, translucent, shot through with vivid red veins. A coin pouch was belted around his waist. On his middle finger an emerald ring sparkled. The large jewel caught Ballas’s eye.
‘What are the odds?’ asked Ballas, looking at the man curiously.
‘He’s the favourite,’ said the man, gesturing to the cockerel wearing the beak-spike. ‘He looks battle-torn, true. But he fights fiercely. I’d give you three to one.’
‘And the other?’
‘Untried,’ shrugged the man. ‘Let’s say four to one, because of his inexperience.’
‘A penny on the first bird,’ said Ballas, handing the coin to the man who nodded, then moved off into the crowd.
The cockfight began.
The bout was bloody and protracted. The beak-spike bird jabbed ferociously at its rival, ripping out an eye and puncturing its throat. The other repeatedly sprang upon its opponent’s back, its spurs slicing through feathers and flesh. Blood oozed from the wounds. After twenty minutes, the killing blow came: a spur slashed open the beak-spike bird’s stomach. Blue-green intestines poked out. The bird collapsed, its talons clawing the floor spasmodically.
The audience cheered.
The bird’s owner retrieved his ward and inspected its wounds, wondering whether they could be stitched so the bird could fight again.
Having lost his bet, Ballas settled at a corner table.
Gambling was a foolish, wasteful habit. It gave a brief flash of pleasure—then came disappointment. In his time, Ballas had lost money on wagers of all kinds. Not just on cockfights, but on dog-baitings and bare-knuckle brawls. And on less exciting events: coin tossing, dice rolls, frog races … Always, he left poorer than he’d been when he’d arrived. And, always, he didn’t hesitate to gamble again.
He had lost a penny—what of it? Soon he would be rich.
The big man licked his lips and sipped at his wine.
In the corner, the man with the emerald ring was paying out to those who had gambled well: those who had been fortunate or wise enough to bet on the spur-garbed cockerel.
Yet he was also selling something from a drawstring bag. Ballas squinted, attentive. From the bag the man extracted a twisted brown root, no larger than an infant’s thumb. A gambler handed him a few pennies. Then, grinning, he went away with the root.
Ballas frowned.
‘You,’ he said to a serving girl who was scrubbing cockerel’s blood from the floorboards. ‘Come here.’
Rising, the girl approached. She was an unimpressive creature. Her skin was pale. A cold sore glistened at the corner of her mouth. She was incredibly thin. She moved slowly, as if gripped by profound lethargy. Her eyes were only half focused.
Ballas gestured to the man with the emerald ring. ‘What is he selling?’
The girl glanced over. ‘You do not know?’
‘Wouldn’t have asked if I did,’ retorted Ballas, scowling. The girl stared at Ballas. Her pupils were enlarged, as if submerged in darkness. She swayed slightly. ‘I thought it strange …’ she began.
‘Thought what strange?’
‘That you didn’t … that you do not know what Gramiche is selling. You look as if you have suffered hard times; and many beleaguered souls find Gramiche’s wares helpful … He is selling many things, all bundled into one. Sunshine, happiness, enlightenment—one can converse with the Four, and with spirits, and with ancient scribes and learned men.’ She blinked dreamily. ‘It is marvellous. You ought to try it yourself. You can see everything, from the moments of creation— the rains that formed the sea and the suns that bared the land—right up to the end of time. And there are other things,unimaginable things. The hidden scripture of Nature becomes clear. The meaning of a butterfly’s wingbeat, of a sand dune’s shape … they can be understood. In such things there is language, and a truth.’
Ballas began to understand. ‘He is peddling visionary’s root?’
The girl nodded. ‘Are you going to buy some?’
‘Perhaps,’ lied Ballas, carefully. ‘The man who sells it— where does he get it from?’
The girl gestured vaguely. ‘The Distant East. It grows wild there. Any man with a sickle may harvest it … and in doing so he will garner dreams and knowledge and all good things.’ A trickle of brown-tinged saliva crept from the side of her mouth. She wiped it away with her finger.
The girl’s eyes grew hazy. She swallowed. ‘The East—that is where all the root comes from.’
‘And Gramiche travels there himself?’ asked Ballas.
The girl frowned. ‘I do not think so. His master hires merchants—and adventurers—to smuggle it in.’
‘And his master’s name?’
The girl hesitated. ‘Carrande Black.’
‘Tell me about him,’ said Ballas flatly.
‘He owns this tavern, and others,’ said the girl. ‘And he does not merely import goods—he exports, too.’ In her eyes unease flickered. ‘I ought not to speak of such matters.’
Ballas took a penny from his purse, ‘Talk honestly,’ he said, ‘and you will be paid. What is a penny to you, hm? Half a day’s wage?’
She looked at the penny warily. Then she plucked it from Ballas’s palm. ‘Black exports whores,’ she said, half whispering.
‘And you consider that bad?’
‘He sends them to the East,’ she said. ‘Often, the girls are willing. They have heard fine tales of harems. They believe they will be pampered, well fed … and, if they prove their worth, their owners will wed them. But often, the girls Black sends have no wish to leave. Some are whores who, for all its ugliness, are content to stay in Soriterath. And others … they are not whores at all.’ She chewed her lip. ‘They are ordinary girls. Bakers’ daughters, carpenters’ sisters … In the East, pale skins are prized, for they are rare. But a pale-skinned virgin—she is truly valued. But how many virgins labour as whores? None, of course. So Black must find them in different ways. Sometimes, he sends men to the provinces.
There, where poverty reigns, some parents are willing to trade their children for money, for food. But, more often, Black just kidnaps them. He snatches them from the streets. And that is that.’ The girl faltered. ‘He took my sister.’
Ballas gazed evenly at her. ‘Yet still you buy root from him? Still you make him rich?’
The girl blinked, confused—as if Ballas’s question was unfathomable. ‘There is no one else in Soriterath who sells it,’ she said eventually. ‘And besides, my sister vanished a long time ago—yes: a long time ago.’
Ballas was silent for a moment. ‘And Carrande Black has grown rich through such dealings?’
‘He is one of the wealthiest merchants in Soriterath,’ replied the girl, nodding.
Ballas took a gulp from his flagon. ‘Go,’ he told the serving girl.
White-fleshed, gaunt, she drifted like a spectre to the chalk circle. Kneeling, she scrubbed the blood-wet boards. The cockerels’ blood marked her hands.
Ballas drained his flagon. Rising, he walked over to Gramiche’s table. He stood at the back of the queue, watching the rat-eared man sell twist after twist of root. Gramiche’s hands were small, stubby-fingered. And ochretinted from handling the drug. They moved dexterously, taking root from the bag and dropping coins into his pouch. There was a calm, confident air about him. Ballas thought this strange: if he was caught peddling root, his head would be nailed to the Penance Oak. As the serving girl had said, root gave its user certain insights, certain flashes of arcane knowledge. Ballas was uncertain precisely what the Church objected to in this. Perhaps they did fear that the people would become too aware, and be seduced by their root-inspired understanding away from the Four’s teachings.
But Ballas did not think so.
Maybe the Blessed Masters wanted Druine’s inhabitants to suffer, and turn to the Church as a balm. Maybe they objected to any release from pain.
Ballas shrugged inwardly. Such details were of no concern to him.
Nonetheless, Gramiche’s easygoing manner surprised him. Perhaps he had grown complacent. Perhaps he believed that since the Wardens had not previously arrested him, they would never do so.
