Monument

by Ian Graham

  He recalled Black’s quick, agile movements when Ballas had threatened to strike him. The merchant had been supremely self-assured. He had acted with the calm urgency of a man avoiding a threat no fiercer than that of a garden wasp. That too, thought Ballas, had been meant as an insult.

  ‘Years ago,’ murmured the big man, ‘I’d have slaughtered you. I’d have slit your throat before you’d had a chance to scream.’ He drank deeply from the flagon.

  On his lap rested the disc. He traced his fingers over the gemstone and the rubies.

  ‘Five gold pieces. Did you truly believe I would accept that?’

  Of course, Black had believed it. Ballas suddenly understood why. Black, who had enough gold to outshine the sun, was not dazzled by such meagre amounts. But he reckoned Ballas—a man compelled by his nature to scavenge and grub—would be. Black had expected the coins, glinting on the desk, to act upon Ballas like a candle flame on a moth: first, to glare-deaden his wits; then, to draw him inexorably closer …

  Would every rich man behave the same way? Would they all expect him to be beguiled by the tiniest scattering of gold?

  If they did, then they would be disappointed.

  Yet maybe things would be more fruitful if he guarded against it. And against himself: for, in truth, the five gold coins had tempted him. A mild ache had seized his ribcage. His mouth had gone dry. He had been only a quivering of willpower away from taking the money. From selling the disc too cheaply.

  He drained the wine flagon, then uncorked another.

  As long as the rubies and the gemstone were fixed within the iron frame, he would have no choice but to sell them as a piece. Thus it was easier, by far, for people like Black to offer what seemed a reasonable amount, when they were in truth deceiving him. Black had offered five gold coins—yet it was worth fifteen … at least. For who could tell what a ruby, taken alone, might bring?

  ‘Isn’t it true,’ said Ballas, slurring, ‘that a man buying a number of precious things expects some sort of reduction, because he is giving out such a large amount of his money? Yet, if each stone were sold alone, more money could be made? Some like the easiness of selling all at a stroke. I don’t, though. For all I have is time. From these stones—’ he got clumsily to his feet ‘—I shall squeeze every drop of gold … just as a winemaker tramples every bit of juice from his grapes.’

  He groped for a candle.

  Unable to find one, he opened the window shutters. Moonlight flooded the room, making visible the pallet-bed, a table and a few empty flagons.

  Ballas reached for his knife—then grunted. He did not have a blade right now. Church Law forbade the bearing of weapons in Soriterath.

  Scowling, he went down to the common room. He bought another flagon of wine. And a piece of mustard-coated beef, with which the tavern master supplied an eating dagger.

  Back in his lodging room, Ballas ate the steak. Then he moved to the window. As he did so, moonlight flashed upon the blue gemstone. Inside, the golden sparks flickered silver— then faded back to gold.

  ‘A pretty effect,’ muttered Ballas.

  He braced the disc against his stomach. Then he jammed the dagger-tip between a ruby and the edge of the socket in which it nestled. Levering the blade back and forth, he tried to prise out the stone.

  After a few moments he stopped. And swore.

  The stone would not budge. Clearly, the disc’s maker had been a competent craftsman. In most baubles, the ruby would have popped out easily enough.

  Now it seemed that Ballas had a struggle on his hands.

  He tried a different ruby. Grunting, he rocked the knife back and forth. His face reddened with effort. Suddenly, moonlight struck the blue gemstone again. The gold sparks glared silver once more. And a shaft of blue-white light shot up from the gemstone.

  Or seemed to.

  It lasted only a heartbeat. Startled, Ballas jolted, shifting the gemstone out of the moonlight. The blue-white light had been bright—so bright that blotches drifted now across Ballas’s vision, as if he’d gazed into a lantern and then looked away abruptly.

  Scowling, he blinked and rubbed his eyes.

  He thought about the light-shaft. Then he shook his head.

  ‘Tired,’ he murmured. ‘I’m as tired as a bloody pack mule.’ His gaze lit on the empty flagons. ‘Tired, and drunk on Keltuskan Red. Pilgrims’ wounds, that stuff is poisonous. It’s as vile as serpents’ piss. It does my head no good—or my guts. When I’m rich, I’ll sup finer wines. Wines that’re just as potent—but kinder.’

  His gaze returned to the disc.

  He tapped his dagger-tip upon it, thinking. He decided to try getting the blue gemstone out. The rubies were fine. He could get a good amount of gold if he sold them. But only the blue gemstone would make him truly wealthy. Better by far if he expended some effort getting that one out of its socket. The rubies he’d deal with later. Or perhaps, once rich, he would hire a jewelsmith to remove them.

  Ballas worked the dagger-tip in between gemstone and socket rim. He pressed the dagger sideways, working it against the jewel. The gemstone stayed socket-locked. Cursing, he applied greater pressure. The blade began to bend.

  ‘Pilgrims’ blood,’ he grunted, ‘come free, won’t you? For the Forest’s sake—!’

  The blade continued to bend. Adjusting his grip, Ballas tried sliding the dagger deeper. He tilted the disc fractionally—

  And blue-silver light speared up from the gemstone.

  It flooded the lodging with brilliance. Everything acquired a shadow. Not just the table and the wine flagons, but tiny things as well. Dust heaps on the floor. A moth carcass by the skirting board. A spilled wine-drop. A cobweb in a corner.

  Surprised, Ballas jumped once more. But not so much that the gemstone moved out of the moonlight.

  He held the disc steady.

  The light-shaft was changing.

  It broadened, funnelling out into a cone shape. Its light was pure, crisp—a thousand times clearer than fire- or lantern-light. Clearer even than the sun. The cone widened, stretching upwards and outwards.

  The light’s texture altered. Somehow it tightened. Or, more accurately, hardened.

  It seemed to grow almost solid.

  Different shades of blue-silver seeped in. Some darker. Others lighter.

  Gradually an image appeared.

  It took Ballas several moments to take in everything he was now seeing.

  There was a landscape. A desert, it seemed. The horizon was ridged with dunes. Yet these didn’t seem to be made of sand. Somehow, Ballas sensed they were ash: a pale, blue-grey powder, like the remains of a campfire. In the distance a forest could be seen. In the sky there was neither sun nor moon. No stars shone, no clouds drifted. It was impossible to tell if it was night or day.

  In the foreground there was a figure. It wore a pale robe of some glossy material. Silk, perhaps. It kept its back to Ballas. Only the back of a bony, hairless head was visible.

  Slowly, the figure turned.

  A Lectivin. The Pale Race had been extinct for centuries, obliterated during the Red War. They existed only in history books. In folk memories. And in church sermons.

  Yet now Ballas gazed upon an inhabitant of Lectivae.

  Its features were stark, angular. Like those of a primitive carving. Its eyes were slits, its mouth a lipless gash. Its cheekbones jutted sharply, as if trying to pierce the skin that covered them. Yet its nose hardly existed—a mere gristled ridge over two perforations. There was something insectile about the Lectivin. It reminded Ballas of a preying mantis.

  Yet Lectivins were not of insect stock. They were—had been—intelligent creatures: more sharp-witted than humans. And fearsome fighters. During the Red War, they had proved themselves both disciplined and savage.

  Ballas stared, numbly.

  The Lectivin stared back.

  The big man licked his lips.

  ‘Strange,’ he murmured. ‘I’ve never seen anything like this before. How’s it
done? Magick? Or some trickery with lenses?’

  It didn’t matter. This image—this sculpture from moonlight—would increase the disc’s value dramatically.

  Carrande Black had offered five gold pieces. Now, Ballas was certain, he’d part with thirty, forty, fifty. What bored, wealthy man wouldn’t crave such a piece?

  You won’t reckon it a bauble any longer, thought Ballas.

  He drew a breath.

  But it is too late, Black. You’ve missed your chance. You insulted me. So I’ll find a different buyer.

  The Lectivin’s mouth twitched. It was speaking, Ballas realised. No sound came from the image. Ballas grunted, disappointed. If the Lectivin could be heard, the disc would be worth ten more gold pieces.

  The Lectivin made a peculiar gesture. Its palm held outward, it touched the air in front of its chest. Then the air several inches lower. Then to the left. And the right. As if it were marking out the points of a cross.

  Then it touched the imaginary cross’s centre.

  It lowered its hands.

  Stooping, the Lectivin took a roll of fabric from the ground and unfurled it. It was made from shining, silvern cloth. Stitched upon it, in dark thread, were sixty or seventy sigils. Frowning, Ballas tried to read them. They were unfamiliar. He assumed they were in Lectivin script.

  They transfixed him, though. Their darkness against the cloth’s brightness held his gaze.

  His head started to ache. A dull, tentative throbbing at his temples.

  At first it didn’t trouble him. But the pain grew stronger. Assuming the blue-silver light was to blame, he tried to lower the disc. To move it out of the moonlight, so that the image would disappear.

  He could not do so.

  His arms would not budge. Grunting, he strained—yet it seemed his muscles had locked solid.

  He gazed at the sigils.

  Gradually, the image brightened. The blue-silver light intensified, but Ballas was unable even to squint. The light poured through his wide-open eyes. It seared his brain like engraver’s acid. Then it spread through his body. Every nerve end flared. Ballas tried to cry out. Tried to summon help. Yet his mouth wouldn’t work. He managed only a faint groan.

  The light grew brighter. And brighter.

  Ballas shifted his gaze.

  The Lectivin watched him dispassionately—

  And suddenly Ballas could move.

  Shouting out, he slumped to the floor. The disc spun from his fingers, rolling like a coin over the boards. The image shrank back, vanishing.

  Moaning, Ballas clutched his head. His skull pulsed, his brain felt like a clod of charred flesh. He tasted blood—he had bitten through his lips.

  He tumbled sideways, curling into a ball. Slowly, he sank into blackness.

  Ballas opened his eyes.

  The lodging room was dark. Sweat plastered the big man’s body. His flesh felt like it was on fire—yet he was shivering. He felt as if he were suffering from a fever.

  Muttering, he pushed himself into a sitting position.

  He was in pain.

  Yet he was aware that a greater pain—the worst he’d ever felt—had passed.

  He opened his mouth to swear. To condemn profanely whatever had caused the pain.

  Yet he couldn’t remember.

  Blinking, he rubbed his face. His gaze fell upon the iron disc, at rest upon the floorboards. Somehow, it had been to blame. Of that, he was certain.

  But how had it hurt him?

  Ballas thought hard. The last thing he could recall was trying to prise out the blue gemstone. He had been over by the shutters … there had been moonlight … yes—somehow, moonlight was important …

  Grunting, he picked up the disc. He took two paces towards the shutters—then halted.

  ‘Don’t be a bloody fool,’ he told himself. ‘I’m not going to go through it again, whatever it was, just to satisfy my curiosity.’ He tossed the disc on to his pallet-bed. He drank a few mouthfuls of wine. Then a floorboard creaked outside the lodging-room door.

  Ballas’s hackles stirred.

  There was a dull scraping sound. Slowly, the door began to open.

  Ballas shrank into the corner, hiding in the shadows and clasping the wine flagon to him as if for comfort. Through the window, he saw a man in the street below, mounted on a black horse. Darkness hid his features. But a ponytail was visible, foam-white in the moonlight.

  Carrande Black, thought Ballas.

  The door swung open. Two broad-shouldered men charged in. Each wore a knife at his hip. Ballas recognised them from the Broken Moon. He recognised too the shorter figure that followed.

  Gramiche.

  Ballas drew back further into the corner.

  Gramiche moved to the pallet-bed. ‘We are in luck,’ he said, picking up the disc. ‘This is what our master seeks.’ He peered closely at it. His lips worked silently. ‘Strange,’ he murmured. ‘Very strange. The rubies … they have lost—’

  ‘Sir,’ interrupted one of the broad-shouldered men.

  Gramiche glanced at him. ‘What?’

  The man pointed into the corner where Ballas was huddling.

  ‘A silent one, isn’t he?’ said the little man, thoughtfully. Then, loudly: ‘We almost didn’t realise you were there. In a past life, were you a church mouse, hm?’

  Ballas did not move. He stood stock-still, wondering what would happen next.

  ‘Kill him,’ Gramiche told the two bruisers. ‘Make sure he stays quiet for keeps.’

  Unsheathing a dagger, the first man sprang at Ballas. The move did not startle him. He had half expected it.

  Stepping to his right, Ballas smacked the wine flagon against his attacker’s head. The vessel did not shatter; it merely gave out a dull boom. The man stumbled, dazed. Then his knees buckled. Ballas kicked him hard in the face. He jerked backwards. Blood gouted from his nose.

  The second man looked stunned. He hadn’t expected his companion to fall. Swearing, Ballas crunched a left hook into his cheek. He fell on to the pallet-bed.

  Gramiche drew a short-bladed dagger.

  A part of Ballas wanted to punch the little man. Another part wanted to retrieve the disc. But the flagon-struck thug had got up, his eyes blazing with pain and fury. Gripping his dagger, he came forward.

  Drawing back his arm, Ballas hurled the flagon at him. His aim was poor. The flagon flew past the man, shattering against the wall.

  Cursing, Ballas ran from the lodging room.

  He sprinted along a short landing. The stairway to the common room was pitch dark. Ballas slowed down, treading cautiously on the wooden steps. Then he heard footfalls on the landing above.

  ‘You bastard!’ shouted someone—the first bruiser, thought Ballas. ‘I’ll cut your bloody balls off!’

  Ballas started to run down the stairs.

  Half drunk, moving in total darkness, he quickly lost his footing. He fell heavily on to the steps, and rolled the remaining distance to the common room.

  The fire had burned itself out. But a few embers still glowed in the hearth.

  Ballas ran to the door. Then struggled to find the latch. His fingers touched cold metal—

  And then he felt a blow in the small of his back.

  Groaning, he sagged against the door.

  He wondered if he had been stabbed or punched. From past experience, he knew that the two sensations were, initially at any rate, practically identical: each started as a dull, throbbing ache. He pushed himself sideways, and a second blow whistled past his head. He heard knuckles slam against the door.

  One of the thugs swore.

  Struggling upright, Ballas groped through the gloom. His fingertips brushed fabric. He grasped the thug’s tunic front. Then he jammed a hand between his legs. He felt the cloth-clad weight of the bruiser’s testicles. Grunting, Ballas squeezed.

  The man sucked in a breath. Then he made a choking noise.

  Seizing his belt, Ballas dragged him towards the fireplace. Five paces closer, he tripped
him. The man pitched face first into the embers.

  Sparks swirled up. The thug howled.

  Ballas fumbled open the door and plunged outside.

  Turning to his left, he broke into a run. He was already exhausted. The fight had sapped his energy. And the pain of the blow—whether stab or punch—had weakened him.

  Yet the energy of desperation drove him on. He jogged flat-footedly alone the paved street.

  Suddenly, hooves scraped on stone.

  Ballas stumbled, surprised.

  He glanced back. On his dark horse, Carrande Black cantered toward him. Ballas cursed. He had forgotten about the merchant.

  He started to run. But a few seconds later, Black had caught up with him. Something struck Ballas’s skull. The world tilted. He dropped to the ground.

  The hoofbeats halted.

  Slowly, Ballas looked up. Ten paces away Carrande Black was slipping a cudgel back into a velvet sheath.

  Grunting, Ballas pushed himself up on to all fours. He touched his head where the blow had fallen. His hair was sticky with blood.

  ‘Did I not say that you belong in the gutter?’ asked Carrande Black. ‘Look: you even have the posture of a rat.’ He paused. ‘I heard screams from the tavern. It seems you have been fortunate. You have escaped Lukas and Ragrialle. Maybe a vermin-god is watching over you, eh?’ He glanced past Ballas.

  The big man looked in the same direction.

  Gramiche had emerged from the tavern. He ran over, a knife in his hand.

  ‘I have the disc, master,’ he said, drawing closer. ‘But some strangeness has befallen it. The outer stones—’

  ‘Later, later,’ said Black mildly. ‘Our business with our friend remains unfinished.’

  ‘I will tend to it,’ said Gramiche, approaching Ballas.

  Grasping Ballas’s hair, Gramiche jerked back the big man’s head. Then he pressed the knife against the skin of his throat.

  ‘I shall butcher you,’ explained Gramiche, ‘as those in the Distant East butcher their cattle. Yours will be a holy death. Or perhaps … perhaps it will not be. For was not the vile rebel Cal’Briden killed in such a fashion? Was his throat not slit? Ah—it does not matter. The job will be done, and you will be dead. That is—’