by Ian Graham
‘Perhaps,’ said Ballas, nodding. ‘Nonetheless: I have to report the attack to my fellow Wardens. We’ve got to keep our eyes open, understand?’ He paused. ‘You’ve come from the market, yes?’
The man nodded.
‘Were any Wardens there?’
‘Usually there are but two or three. But today there have to be a dozen. To be truthful, it makes me uneasy. Something is happening … something serious. But I do not know what. I spoke to a friend who lives near Papal Square. There are many Wardens there, too. And throughout the city. What—’ He hesitated. ‘What is going on? Can you tell me?’
‘I fear I cannot,’ said Ballas quietly.
‘Church business?’
Ballas nodded. ‘I will, however, compliment you on your cape. The wool is soft,’ he said, lightly gripping the garment. ‘I reckon it must keep the cold out and the heat in.’
‘It was a gift,’ said the man, ‘from my wife. She fears winter will be harsh, and I may fr—’
Ballas head-butted the man—a single, skull-jolting blow. Knocked unconscious, he fell to the ground. Ballas unfastened the cape, then drew it on. Glancing up and down the thoroughfare, he dragged the man into the dwelling place. Then, pulling up the cape’s hood, he returned outdoors.
‘The Wardens are out in droves,’ he muttered. ‘They are wolves, and I am their prey. But that is no surprise.’ He fingered the hood’s wool. His face was partially concealed—that was something. But he could not hide his size. For the first time in years, he was conscious of his bulk. He was six spans taller than most men. He stood out like a mountain among hillocks. He stooped slightly, as if his height could be disguised. Then he straightened up. Such an unnatural posture would draw attention. Safer by far to walk as he usually did.
He moved slowly along the thoroughfare.
Soriterath was a walled city. There were four entrance gates, one at each cardinal compass point. If Ballas were to leave, he would have to choose between the north, south, east or west gates. He thought hard.
Where, in Druine, would I be safest? he wondered. North of Soriterath? Or south …
For a time, he pondered the matter. Then he realised there was scant point in doing so. Nowhere in the Realm would be safe. He recalled the prisoner Gerack’s words: There is not a square inch of ground unwatched by the Masters’ men.
From west to east, Druine measured one thousand miles. From south to north, seven hundred and fifty. Yet at this moment it seemed as confining as the cell under the Sacros.
Nonetheless, Ballas had to leave Soriterath. He continued walking, and found himself heading eastwards.
He kept to backstreets and alleyways seldom trodden. He stayed well away from Papal Square. And he fought steadily rising feelings of unease. He glanced at every passing face, seeking some hint that he had been recognised. He kept his hood drawn up, and he frequently looked backwards, ensuring no one was following him. He was seized by an urge to run— to simply sprint from the city. Yet he fought it down, maintaining a brisk but unexceptional pace.
Eventually he reached the city gates.
The portcullis was raised. A slow stream of carts trundled into the city. Many belonged to merchants: their wares were heaped on the backs of the vehicles, covered by leather tarpaulins. As they entered, the cart drivers were directed to an inspection point twenty yards away, where Wardens checked for forbidden materials: prohibited scrolls and books, implements associated with magickers’ work, visionary’s root …
Ballas grimaced.
There were roughly thirty Wardens on the gates. And they were scrutinising not only those entering the city—but those who were leaving. That, Ballas knew, was unusual. And entirely predictable: a Blessed Master had been attacked, and his assailant was still at large.
Ballas swore. He had to leave Soriterath. Yet he couldn’t simply walk out through the gates.
He thought for a moment. Then he caught the smell of burning coal. He looked past the inspection point. There was a blacksmith’s shop—Ballas made out dirt-thick smoke floating towards the sky.
He licked his lips.
‘Maybe it will work,’ he murmured, ‘maybe it will not …’
Keeping close to building-fronts, he edged around the open area in front of the gates, then ducked behind the inspection point. He swept his gaze around the assembled carts. He swiftly noted the goods heaped on them: pots, meats, fish, silks … all bound for Soriterath’s markets. Turning, he approached the blacksmith’s shop. It was an open-fronted building; under a low roof, a furnace glowed, and a hammer rested upon an anvil. A row of tools dangled from wall hooks. The blacksmith, his face soot-blackened, was some yards away, shoeing a merchant’s horse. He was engrossed in his task. The merchant stood close by; but he was poring over a scroll—an inventory, perhaps, or a contract.
Ballas exhaled.
Treading silently, he ducked into the smithy. Taking a pair of tongs from a hook, he plucked a coal from the furnace: it glowed softly in the metal grips. Then he snatched a jar of oil from a shelf, and went quietly back outside. Neither blacksmith nor merchant saw him.
He returned to the inspection point. He crept behind a cart, put down the jar and, with the hand thus freed, peeled back the tarpaulin. Rolls of silk lay beneath. Ballas glanced up at the cart’s owner. Deep in conversation with another merchant, he had not noticed Ballas. Carefully, Ballas picked up the oil jar and emptied its contents over the silk. Then he tucked the burning coal deep within the lustrous fabric.
He stepped back, waiting.
For a short time, nothing seemed to happen.
Then thin streamers of smoke began to twist up from the silk. An instant later, small flickering flames appeared. They crawled slowly up the rolls—then, reaching an oil-sodden portion, erupted with a yellow-orange flash. Fire swiftly rampaged over the silks. Within heartbeats, the back of the cart was burning vigorously.
The cart’s owner glanced around.
‘My silks!’ he shouted. ‘The Four have mercy! What has happened!’ He ran towards the cart. Nearing the flames, he halted. He looked wildly around. ‘Water! Somebody bring water! Oh please—I am going to lose everything!’
A chestnut gelding was harnessed to the cart. Something startled it. Ballas didn’t know whether it sensed the flames dancing close to its rump or whether the merchant’s frantic cries provoked it to panic. In truth, he did not care. Something had the desired effect. Terrified, the horse broke into a crazed gallop. The cart’s owner dived out of the way, but a wheel rolled over his ankle. Bones cracked; the cart’s owner howled. The cart crashed through the inspection point. Like some fierce contagion, panic spread among the other carthorses. Whinnying crazily, they too launched into fear-spurred gallops. Some veered towards the city gates; a grey mare thundered into a cluster of Wardens. The rest scattered in all directions, careening through the crowds.
Wardens rushed to halt the horses. They snatched out at bridle straps. Some sprang on to the carts’ driving benches and took up the reins.
The city gates were unguarded. Walking briskly, Ballas cut across the inspection point and passed through the gates.
Ahead lay an expanse of moorland. A hoof-churned mud path crossed the dull grass and frost-browned bracken.
A rider approached the city gates. As he drew closer, he dismounted, as Papal Law decreed.
Ballas moved toward him.
The rider—a middle-aged man, with steel-grey hair— frowned. Trouble, is there?’ he said, indicating the gates.
Ballas glanced back. The blaze had spread from the silks. Many other carts were aflame; even from so far away, he could hear burning wood cracking and popping. Smoke curled over the city wall.
‘Some accident or other.’ Ballas shrugged—then he punched the rider in the stomach. The grey-haired man dropped to the mud, gasping.
Ballas climbed upon the rider’s horse—a firm-muscled white mare. Gripping the reins lightly, he turned the horse. Then, jabbing his heels into its flanks, he u
rged the animal into a canter.
Ballas rode out on to the moorland, leaving Soriterath behind.
Chapter 7
Its lineaments were not those of a man.
They had the sharpness
Of shattered stone.
Its skin lacked the hues of blood,
Shining palely, as if carved from
Living bone …
… And it bore knowledge permitted
Only to the creator-god …
Until late afternoon, Ballas rode eastwards. He kept clear of the road, preferring the secluded, sheltered dips between hills. In a matter of hours, the day’s autumnal clarity— the crisp, near-painful brightness of sky and sun—vanished, and everything slid into dull overcast. A grey sky hung low over the moorland. Drizzle slanted down, prickling Ballas’s skin. A cold breeze swirled from the north. Yet Ballas, garbed only in tunic, vest and leggings, was sweltering. A sort of angry, fearful disorientation warmed him. The world had grown unfamiliar. The anonymity that Ballas had previously enjoyed had, in a day and a night, been shattered. The Wardens were already seeking him. Soon every Servant of the Church would be doing the same, as would every clergyman.
Ballas swore.
He wondered if the Masters would reveal the reasons why he had to be captured. Would they speak of the killing of Carrande Black? And—more importantly—of the mutilation, possibly murder, of one of their own? Or would they concoct fictional crimes of which he would be accused?
It did not matter. Such things were mere details. The Masters would strain every sinew, torture every nerve to track him down.
Cursing softly to himself, Ballas directed his mount towards a brook that bubbled between two rowan trees.
Dismounting, he kneeled on the bank and drank the cold water. Then he rinsed his face. As he did so, his fingers brushed his beard. Pausing, he touched his hair—black, greasy, shoulder-length.
He would have to remove both beard and hair. If the Masters were circulating his description, those features were bound to be part of it.
Rising, he unbuckled the stolen mare’s saddlebags. He hoped to find a traveller’s grooming tools: soap, a razor … Yet the bags were empty, except for a few copper pennies rolling loose in the bottom.
Ballas sat on a rock, thinking.
How rapidly would news of his crime spread? How much time would pass before people became watchful?
Ballas could not be certain. But he knew that, for the time being, he was reasonably safe: the Wardens might be pursuing him, but ordinary folk were not. In a few days, all might have changed. But for now, he had nothing … well, little to fear from towns and cities—apart from Soriterath.
Remounting, Ballas continued towards the east.
As nightfall approached, Ballas arrived at Crendlestake, a large town crouching on the banks of Merefed River. Before he reached the settlement’s edge, it occurred to him that the man whose horse he had stolen might have ridden from this town. Swinging from the mount, he slapped the creature’s rump hard; giving a surprised whinny, the animal cantered off over the moorland.
His stolen cape’s hood pulled low, Ballas walked into Crendlestake. It was faintly familiar to him: after all, he had been a vagrant for fifteen years. Maybe twenty. It was entirely possible that he had been here before. Or perhaps he had not—in Druine, one town pretty much resembled another. The buildings were constructed from either dark slatted wood or grey stone. The thoroughfares were usually of bare earth— mud in wet weather. Only in wealthier districts were paving stones laid.
Ballas walked quickly through the gathering dusk. After a short time, he found the Black Bull: a small, cheap tavern, in which he used the saddlebag pennies to purchase a lodging room, two flagons of whisky, some bread and cheese, and the temporary use of shaving implements. A serving girl brought a bowl of warm water, a razor, and a block of tallow soap to Ballas’s room. She also loaned him a shard of mirror-glass. She offered to cut his hair for an extra penny, but Ballas refused.
In the lodging room, candles glowed. Ballas propped the mirror-glass against the wall. He looked intently at his reflection. The bruises only hinted at by the spike of window-pane that morning glowered thunder-head-black. The hoof-strike from Carrande Black’s horse, the beating delivered by the Wardens—they had left their mark. Although Ballas had rinsed his face in the stream earlier, specks of dried blood still clung to his forehead. Taking the soap, he scrubbed his skin clean. Then he worked a lather into his beard.
He had not shaved for ten years. It was, he discovered, a painful process. Half blunt, the razor tugged savagely at his beard. It seemed much less to cut than to scrape. Scowling, Ballas dragged the blade over his skin, again and again and again. Blood splashed into the foam-capped bowl.
After what seemed like a long time, his beard was completely gone.
Ballas stared.
His jaw was strong, but not in a handsome fashion. There was something bestial about it. Something mulish, perhaps.
It was also scar-scrawled. A thin stripe slashed across his chin. Another arced towards his cheekbone. The razor’s touch had aggravated them. They burned livid pink, almost as if freshly made.
Ballas touched them. Gently.
For a heartbeat, it was no longer autumn. The lodging room grew warm. Out of the floorboards drifted the scents of sun-struck grass. Somewhere, a dragonfly’s buzzing drone struck up. From the corner of his eye he glimpsed light flashing on tarn-water. There was laughter and then … then there came a distant scream.
Ballas jolted. Panic gripped him. Thrusting out his hand, he knocked the shard of mirror-glass from the wall. It flew spinning, flashing, across the lodging room—then, striking the floor, it shattered into tiny fragments. Breathing heavily, Ballas clenched his fist. Tighter and tighter. Until iciness seized the lodging room once more. Until he could smell nothing but candle smoke.
‘How many years,’ he panted, ‘since last I thought of … of … Pilgrims’ blood! It doesn’t matter. The past is dead, and only crows should pick at corpses.’
He grasped the whisky flagon. With shaking hands, he pulled out the cork. Then he took four long swallows. The hot fluid coursed down his throat. He waited for the first hints of numbness to sweep over him. Nothing. Impatiently, he drank another mouthful. And another, until the flagon was half empty.
Then, at last, he found a hazy restfulness.
Half an hour before dawn, Ballas woke. Last night he had emptied both whisky flagons. When his eyes opened, he found himself sprawled on the lodging room floor, his head throbbing.
Sitting up, Ballas rubbed his jaw. His palm rasped over bristle. He swept a hand over his head. The previous night, intoxicated and lacking a mirror, he had cut his hair. He suspected it wasn’t a neat crop. But at least it was short.
Getting to his feet, Ballas quenched his thirst from a water jug in the room corner. Then he stepped out on to the landing and went downstairs.
The common room was empty. From behind the serving bar, Ballas stole a whisky flagon, then left the tavern.
The sky was a rich dark blue. On the horizon, above the rooftops, the blue lightened at the slow lifting of the sun. The morning was cold; frost sparkled on the ground. The brittle chill refreshed Ballas. And the predawn silence was oddly comforting. The streets were empty. The only sound was Ballas’s scuffing tread. He felt isolated, alone—as if he were the only man in Druine. It seemed impossible that in Soriterath the Blessed Masters were plotting his demise. That, in all likelihood, Wardens were travelling under the same dawn sky as himself, observing the same blueness as himself—intent on capturing or killing him.
Then the silence broke.
A distant voice sounded, echoing among the buildings. Laughter followed and something heavy knocked against something hollow.
Ballas paused, frowning. Then he looked far to his right. The Merefed River flowed gently past.
‘Of course,’ he muttered. ‘This is a dock town …’
It would be far saf
er to travel by water than land. The Merefed River cut through empty moorland and was seldom patrolled by Wardens. And, if Ballas was part of a group, perhaps he would be less conspicuous. Certainly, a lone rider drew more attention than a dozen bargemen.
Ballas followed the sounds and passed between wooden storehouses on to the jetty. A barge was moored fifty paces away. It was a crudely fashioned, unpainted, inexpensive-looking vessel. The rowing benches were bare, uncushioned wood, and the craft lacked a frame over which a canopy might be strung to shelter oarsmen from the rain. The only adornment was a rusted nameplate, nailed to the port side: The Otter.
The barge was being loaded with crates and barrels. A gang of men carried them from a storehouse, then passed them down through a deck hatch. A stocky, black-bearded man watched them closely. He had a broad, flat face and lively blue eyes. Leaning against the bulwark, one hand resting on the tiller, he exuded both authority and comradeship. Yet, in the past, he had clearly upset someone: a scar ran from his left cheekbone over his eye socket and across his forehead. A permanent squint folded the scar-traversed eyelids.
Ballas watched him for a moment. Then he approached. As he drew close, the man looked him over.
‘Fair morning,’ he said, scratching his arm. ‘A fresh one, isn’t it?’
‘Aye,’ replied Ballas. He halted at the barge. Under the jetty, water lapped against the props. Ballas gestured to the cargo vessel. ‘This yours?’
‘It is,’ said the man, nodding. ‘Every rotting joist and leaking join and bright-eyed hull rat—they all belong to me.’
‘How far are you going?’
‘This load,’ the barge-master waved a hand towards the hatch, ‘is destined for Redreathe.’ Redreathe was a town a hundred miles to the east. This pleased Ballas: if he could secure a place on the barge, he would be relatively safe for several days—the time it would take to reach Redreathe. The black-bearded man tilted his head. ‘You look thoughtful, my friend,’ he said, peering at Ballas.
Ballas blinked. ‘These are trying times,’ he said quietly.
