Monument

by Ian Graham

  For a long time, Heresh stared.

  How much of his talk had been truthful, she wondered. Did he really feel no guilt? No lingering soul-dirtying shame at killing? She supposed he had to feelsomething—a thin flicker of disquiet, perhaps. Surely, no one could perform such an act without it having some effect upon their emotions. To take a man’s life was a colossal deed. It could not be ignored or shrugged off—could it?

  A breeze stirred the campfire. Shadows crawled over the big man’s face, mingling with the bruises and dried blood-splashes. Heresh gazed hard at his features. The thick bone-ridge of his brow. The heavy jaw, bristling with dark stubble. They disturbed her. She looked at his skin, coarsened by fierce weather—and fierce drinking. What had his profession been? Something dishonest: of that she was certain. Something that had brought him to the Pilgrim Church’s attention … But what?

  She realised it didn’t matter.

  Gazing at him, she realised his talk had been truthful. That morning, he had killed three men. Now, at eveningfall, he was sleeping peacefully, like a child.

  She could not trust him. Once she and her father had served his purpose … once they had taken him to Granthaven … once they had introduced him to the quill-master Jonas Elsefar … he would kill them. He was being hunted, and would wish to leave as faint a trail as possible. Heresh sensed he trusted few people. So even if they swore an oath of silence, if they vowed to keep secret his location and his intent, it would make no difference. If they begged for leniency, for mercy—that too would have no effect: Heresh recalled the cold-hearted manner in which Ballas had dragged the paralysed Warden Commander into the eel-infested waters. Ballas was not disposed to compassion. Jaspar Grethinne had been a vile man, true; but his final moments had been unimaginably horrible, and she found herself pitying him.

  She stared at Ballas. ‘What choice do I have?’ she murmured, taking up the filleting knife.

  She rose silently. Then she walked around the campfire to the cave mouth.

  Ballas slept on. His breaths were steady, rhythmic. Their depth, and hollowness, evoked something bestial. As if he were not a man at all, but some forest creature—a wolf, perhaps. Or a boar. Yes, a boar—how often, she wondered, had he been likened to such an animal? For in both appearance and habit, they might have been brothers.

  Kneeling, she felt Ballas’s body heat drifting over her leg. Soon he would be cold. As icy-blooded and lifeless as Jaspar Grethinne.

  She lifted the knife.

  It must be done, she told herself. Is it not what you advised, Ballas? Did you not say, ‘If your life depends on another’s death, you must kill?’

  The blade quivered. A single throat-piercing strike would suffice. An unpleasant death, perhaps. But, to Heresh’s mind, the safest. The most certain.

  She drew a breath. Then brought down the knife.

  The blade did not touch the big man’s throat. Something obstructed Heresh’s arm. Something made it jerk to a halt, the blade-tip several inches from its target.

  She froze. A large hand gripped her wrist.

  Ballas stared at her, his grey-green eyes glinting.

  ‘Don’t be a bloody fool,’ he said.

  His fingers tightened, bruising Heresh’s flesh. She gasped. Ballas twisted her wrist slightly; the knife slipped from her fingers, landing noiselessly in the grass.

  ‘I’m your only chance of survival,’ said Ballas, maintaining his grip. ‘Your father was right: I am a violent man, and if you are to live you will need my help.’

  ‘How long will that help last? Soon you will have no use for us. What then?’

  ‘Don’t ask questions,’ replied Ballas quietly. ‘Be glad that I am here and that, for the time being, your life is worth something to me.’ He released her. ‘Go to sleep. We have a day of riding ahead. And—’ he grasped Heresh’s forearm; his fingers seemed to burn her skin ‘—if you get any more stupid ideas, I will kill you. Understand? I’ll ram that bloody knife through your throat. Think how your father will feel when he finds you are dead.’

  Again, Ballas released her. Heresh tried to think of something to say. Yet there was nothing—nothing at all. The big man left the knife in the grass, firelight dancing along the blade. He knew Heresh wouldn’t dare touch it. He knew he was safe. Already, his eyes were closing, and he was drifting into a slumber.

  Heresh bedded down at her father’s side, and tried vainly to sleep.

  Ballas woke an hour before dawn. Rising, he walked past the glowing campfire embers and, seizing the man’s shoulder, shook Crask awake. The eel-catcher’s eyes opened and, as if he had woken into a nightmare, he gave a startled gasp and cringed back against the rocks. Then he seemed to pull himself together. Breathing heavily, he wiped a night sweat from his forehead.

  ‘You frightened me,’ he said. ‘You should not rouse people so roughly.’

  ‘Wake your daughter,’ grunted Ballas. ‘We’ve got to be moving on.’

  Crask woke Heresh and they left the cave mouth, traipsing north-east over the moors. As thin dawn light spread across the land, illuminating the frost-layered grasses and stones, the three travellers crested a low hill. A farmhouse lay ahead, surrounded by outbuildings. A large whitewashed stable adjoined a paddock.

  ‘Come with me,’ Ballas said to Heresh. Pointing at Crask, he added, ‘You: stay here.’

  The eel-catcher frowned. ‘Where my daughter goes I go too.’

  ‘Father,’ interrupted the red-haired woman, ‘let us not argue with him. I am certain he knows what he is doing. And is he not a man of honour? Is that not what you said yesterday, before we set out on this … errand?’ There was something faintly sardonic about her tone. Something bitter, too. But Ballas couldn’t tell whether these sentiments were aimed at her father or at himself.

  Himself, probably. In his experience, women—unable to exact physical retribution—resorted to sharp words. Heresh had failed to kill him. Now, humiliated, she sought to lacerate him with insinuations.

  Crask blinked uneasily. ‘Take care of her,’ he said, turning to Ballas.

  ‘We’re stealing horses,’ replied the big man. ‘That is all.’

  They walked down the slope to the stable. Inside, they found three chestnut geldings, and a white mare roughly thirty spans tall. Ballas liked the look of the animal. Unhitching the tackle from a wall-hook, he saddled and bridled-up the mare, and instructed Heresh to do the same for two of the geldings. The young woman worked briskly, and the geldings were soon ready.

  They led the horses from the stable, climbing the slope to the hill crest. Crask was waiting for them nervously. At his daughter’s bidding, he clambered on to a gelding. His movements, as he swung into the saddle, were awkward. Once upon the creature he sat stiffly, like a wooden figurine.

  ‘Many years have passed,’ he said, holding the reins tightly, ‘since I last rode. I was never a gifted horseman—that I readily admit. But I fear what skills I once had have now gone. I am not as supple as I once was. And it is said that, if you spend too long out of the saddle, your body’s rhythms become stubbornly your own: they will no longer be concordant with those of your mount. The horse becomes something foreign, unpredictable. And riding becomes like a wrestling bout: it is all grappling, struggling, jerking this way and that …’

  Ballas clambered into the saddle.

  Crask looked at him. ‘Still, it is a fine thing we have brisker transport. I shall be glad to rest my legs. And, in two days, we ought to be in Granthaven. Then—then we will bid each other farewell, yes? Heresh and I will travel to our safe place. And you—you will go wherever it is you are going.’

  Ballas stared heavily at him.

  ‘That is the plan, hm?’ Crask licked his lips. ‘We fulfil our half of the bargain—and you fulfil yours.’

  For a long moment, Ballas was silent. ‘You’re foul company, Crask,’ he said eventually. ‘Whenever you speak, it is all prattle—you annoy me, like a squeaky wheel on a cart. When you’re beyond earshot, I shall
be happy. But as irritating as you are, your daughter—’ he turned his gaze to Heresh ‘—is worse. When she is gone, I’ll not weep.’ He looked back to the eel-catcher. ‘Our paths will split apart—I’ll make sure of it. I won’t spend a heartbeat more with you than I need.’

  ‘So,’ said Crask, ‘there will be no sorrow in our parting?’ ‘No sorrow,’ echoed Ballas. He stared at Crask—then shifted his gaze to Heresh. The woman was stony-faced, as if she detected something offensive in his words. Or something disturbing.

  Ballas smiled. ‘No sorrow,’ he repeated.

  Chapter 12

  … and into their number came

  The fifth pilgrim, from beyond the water,

  And they accepted him, despite his strangeness,

  For he claimed kinship with them,

  And a common purpose …

  After two days of silent, uneventful riding, they arrived at Granthaven—a large city of wooden buildings and muddied thoroughfares: a place almost, but not quite, as poverty-stricken as Keltherimyn.

  As they rode into the town, Heresh began to dismount.

  ‘No,’ said Ballas, firmly.

  ‘What?’ replied the red-haired woman, blinking.

  ‘Stay in the saddle.’

  ‘I am sick of being on horseback,’ protested Heresh. ‘If I want to walk, I’ll—’

  ‘Get back in the bloody saddle,’ growled Ballas.

  Heresh paused.

  ‘Get in the saddle,’ said Ballas, sharply.

  ‘Do as he says,’ put in Lugen Crask, glancing uneasily at the big man. ‘This is his adventure as much as our own. Let us be cooperative, yes?’

  Heresh did as her father told her. Yet she started to say, ‘I do not see why—’

  ‘Two reasons,’ snapped Ballas. ‘Firstly, I’ve got to stay on horseback. What sort of man do you reckon the Wardens are looking for? The Church’ll have described not only my face, but my build. I’m not a small man. If I’m on a horse, though, it isn’t so obvious. So I ride. And if you dismount—’ he glowered at Heresh ‘—and your father does the same, attention will be drawn to me.’

  ‘And the second reason?’ asked Heresh.

  ‘Who notices a man on horseback?’ replied Ballas. ‘Who looks at a rider’s face? No one. Walk past, and you see his horse—nothing else: only his horse. If anyone looks at you, it’s only a glance.’

  They rode slowly through Granthaven. The streets were not particularly crowded. Yet Ballas felt conspicuous, even on horseback, despite what he’d just told Heresh and Crask. It was true that most riders received a mere glance from any passer-by. But a glance—one from a sharp-eyed or suspicious-natured man—could be enough. He found it tempting to look at every passing face, to see if anyone was watching him with unusual intentness. Yet eye contact—however fleeting or casual-seeming—could easily make someone memorable to another person. Scowling, Ballas kept his gaze fixed on his mare’s neck. When he looked up, it was merely to ensure that there was no danger present: no Wardens or clergymen.

  He glanced sidelong at Crask.

  ‘Where does this quill-master live?’ he said, quietly.

  ‘Assuming he lives at all,’ began Crask, ‘for, as I said, many years have passed—’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘His home lay upon Granthaven’s eastern edge,’ sighed Crask. ‘It was a comfortable—even luxurious—place. It had underfloor heating, a bathing pool, a private stable … and windows. They, more than anything, are its most noticeable feature. Most buildings in Granthaven have shutters. But Jonas Elsefar preferred glass panes. For most people, they are objects of vanity, a type of architectural boastfulness. For few can afford them. They glitter most often in church buildings, and the homes of wealthy merchants. But among the common folk, they are rarities.’ He raised a finger. ‘Still, for Elsefar they were almost a necessity. They say he preferred to work in natural light. He found candlelight intolerable. For it is impure light—light without force or clarity. It placed great strain upon his eyes.’

  It took half an hour to cross Granthaven and reach its eastern edge. The houses were constructed mainly of wood, yet there were also a few grey-bricked edifices. A couple were fitted with windows—yet only one was connected to a stable. Dismounting, Ballas, Crask and Heresh approached the front door.

  Ballas looked heavily at Crask.

  ‘No foolishness,’ he said simply.

  Crask blinked, puzzled.

  ‘Say nothing that will bring us trouble,’ growled Ballas. ‘Don’t mention our scrap in the marshes. Don’t tell the quill-master we are on the run. Don’t say that we have killed Wardens—for men don’t often find such news reassuring. Better if he thinks you are an old ally, asking a favour. And no more.’

  ‘And you? What will he think you are?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Ballas, shrugging, ‘as long as he does what we ask.’ He rapped thrice upon the door. After a short pause, it swung open.

  A middle-aged woman stood on the threshold. She had blonde hair, tied sharply back in an austere, shrewish manner. Yet her face was daubed with make-up: her lips were painted soft red, and rouge placed a sunset tincture on her cheeks. On her fingers, two golden rings shone; the stones were large, and looked ungainly upon the thin bands. She looked first at Ballas, then at Crask and Heresh.

  ‘Yes?’ she asked, simply. Her voice was thickly accented, yet the ss-sound at the single word’s end hissed clear—as if self-consciously spoken.

  Ballas suddenly understood. The woman’s severe hairstyle yet almost whorish make-up; her peasantish accent and expensive but vulgar rings … These contradictions suggested that she had not been born into wealth, but had acquired it. The habits of her past mingled with the affectations of her present.

  Who was she? wondered Ballas. The quill-master’s wife?

  He hoped not. Such women were often harridans. They controlled their husbands like hunt masters controlling unruly hounds: with shouts, threats, thrashings. She might make matters difficult. She might not allow the quill-master to help them.

  She gazed down her nose at her visitors.

  ‘Well?’ she prompted.

  ‘We are seeking Jonas Elsefar,’ said Crask, bowing slightly.

  ‘Jonas Elsefar?’ The woman frowned. ‘That name is unknown to me. For certain, he does not reside here. You have the wrong house.’

  The door began to close.

  Ballas grabbed the door’s edge, stopping it. The woman blinked.

  ‘We’ve come a long way,’ he said darkly. ‘Don’t be rude to us.’

  ‘I told you, this man … this Elsefar—he doesn’t live here.’

  Ballas lifted his chin. ‘But he lived here once?’

  ‘I—’ began the woman.

  ‘He lived here once?’

  The woman nodded, curtly. ‘He was a vile man. A cripple. In a former life, he had surely been a sinner. For those who demonstrate ill virtue in one life return as hobbled, shambling creatures in the next. Yet—yet he had incredible arrogance. His legs were ruined, he could not easily climb a flight of steps—yet he loved himself as much as the healthiest and most virtuous of men. He was like a rat that imagines itself a lion. A vulture that thinks itself an eagle.’ She shook her head. ‘I do not like to speak of him. It is thought bad luck to talk of cripples. Speak of them, and you add their infirmities to your own. That is what the wise folk say.’

  ‘Where does he live?’ asked Ballas.

  The woman smiled—a thin, malignant smirk. ‘At the copying house, on Brewhouse Street. A horrid place for a horrid man.’

  After receiving directions they rode to Brewhouse Street. The copying house was a long single-floored building, situated halfway along the street. It had a faintly churchlike appearance, partly because of its black brickwork, partly because of the arched windows set into it. A tiled roof tilted upwards, the dark slates glittering with frost. Over the door hung a sign: a quill poised over a parchment.

  The window glass was scrubb
ed spotlessly clean. Through it, Ballas saw row upon row of wooden desks. Behind them sat a legion of scribes.

  ‘What tack ought we take?’ said Lugen Crask, wonderingly.

  ‘Tack?’ grunted Ballas.

  ‘Do you wish to merely walk in there? Or will your … your campaign of discretion persist?’ Crask gazed into the copying house. ‘The men in there look bored. If so much as an ant entered the room, they would notice it—and notice, too, every detail: the width of its mandibles, the degree of shine upon its skin … They would commit you to memory in a trice.’

  Crask spoke correctly. Ballas thought for a few moments.

  ‘Go inside,’ he said, ‘and bring the quill-master out here. Give him some story that won’t raise suspicions.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Use your wits,’ snapped Ballas.

  Crask disappeared into the copying house. From a safe distance, Ballas watched through the window. As Crask stepped inside, every scribe looked up. He said something, then crossed the floor, vanishing from Ballas’s view.

  ‘Your father had better make no mistakes,’ grunted Ballas, glancing at Heresh. ‘For his sake—and your own.’

  The red-haired woman shook her head. ‘You disgust me,’ she whispered.

  ‘Three nights ago, you tried to kill me. I find that disgusting. Luckily, you are flat-footed—your footfall woke me up.’ He paused, glancing sideling at her. ‘That, and your fragrance. You hadn’t washed for days, yet still you were sweet-smelling. Some women—the best sort—seem to sweat perfume.’ He looked back through the window. ‘Tell me: do you reckon it’s disgusting that I didn’t kill you?’

  Heresh was silent for a few heartbeats. ‘I do not believe you did me a kindness,’ she eventually said, quietly. ‘If you spared me, it was for your own reasons. Yes—now I understand. If you had killed me, my father would have refused to help you. While I am alive, you have something with which to threaten my father. The thought of my death frightens him. He will do anything to ensure I do not perish.’ She laughed, sourly. ‘You are the foulest breed of man. You cannot inspire loyalty, so you depend upon threats.’