Monument

by Ian Graham

  Ballas closed the door.

  A few threads of moonlight had pierced the darkness. Now they were extinguished. There was nothing except blackness. Groping, Ballas found a second door. He grasped the ring-handle and twisted. The handle turned a fraction—then jammed.

  ‘Locked,’ muttered Ballas.

  Kneeling, he took a lock-pick from his pocket—just an elaborately toothed-and-indented bone splinter. He worked upon the lock for a few seconds. Inside, something shifted—then clicked. Ballas twisted the handle once more. The door creaked open.

  Ballas stepped into a long corridor. Moonlight poured through a row of arched windows. A carpet covered the floor. Upon the walls hung paintings, their images indistinct in the weak light.

  Ballas unsheathed his knife. Then he followed the corridor to a large, echoing room. At the far end, a stone stairwell rose into the gloom. Ballas climbed it to the second floor. Here he found himself in another corridor. He followed it, then ascended a second, narrower staircase, emerging on to the third floor.

  Ahead, a door stood slightly ajar. A strip of hazy firelight spilled out. Ballas smelled smouldering herbs: the sort from the Distant East that, when burned, give off a fragrance reputed to inflame passions. Silently, Ballas approached the door. He cocked his head, listening. No sound came from inside the chamber. No feminine groans of delight. No masculine grunts of lust.

  Drawing a breath, Ballas swung open the door.

  In an instant he took in the bedchamber. Deep red rugs covered the floor. Candles flickered within niches. In the opposite wall, there was a window: heavy scarlet curtains hung half open.

  And there was a bed: a four-poster, veiled in a red gauze-like fabric. Upon it sat a young woman. She had a pleasant, farm-girl type of face: plump, large-eyed and full-lipped. A gentle blush coloured her cheeks. Her dark hair tumbled on to her chest; a few strands were sweat-stuck to the side of her face. She was staring at her fingernails, and humming. When Ballas entered, she did not look up.

  ‘You were quick,’ she said. ‘By the Four’s mercy, I am hungry. What have you brought?’

  Saying nothing, Ballas closed the door.

  ‘Spiced apples,’ said the woman, brightly. ‘I crave spiced apples. Have you got any? And cheese—that pale, crumbling cheese from the south. What is it called? Oh, I cannot remember. My brain is all a-fuddle. Lovemaking gives me an appetite, and steals my wits. No matter. Whatever you have brought will be enough.’ She turned her face to Ballas. Then she froze. Very slowly, her large eyes blinked. She tilted her head. She seemed like a fawn transfixed by torchlight.

  ‘Who … who are you?’

  Ballas strode towards the bed. The girl recoiled, scrambling over the mattress towards the far side of the room.

  ‘Who are you?’ she repeated. Then panic seized her: Ballas saw it flare in her eyes—a hot, wild light. Springing forward, he grabbed her forearm and dragged her off the bed. He clamped his hand over her mouth. He felt her lips—soft, warm—against his palm.

  ‘Make a noise, and I’ll cut you open,’ he said, lifting the knife to her throat. ‘Understand?’

  The woman struggled.

  ‘Understand?’

  The woman stopped squirming and nodded. She wore a nightgown of white linen: a surprisingly heavy, inelegant piece of clothing.

  ‘Where is Egren Callen? Answer no louder than a whisper.’ Ballas moved his hand an half-inch from her mouth.

  ‘He has gone to the privy,’ she said. ‘Then he is to bring me food.’

  Ballas took her to the corner by the door. ‘Do nothing foolish,’ he said, ‘and you’ll live. All right?’

  The woman nodded.

  ‘Tell me,’ said Ballas, ‘who are you? Callen’s wife? His mistress? Or a whore?’

  ‘A whore.’

  Good, thought Ballas.

  No whore valued a client’s life over her own—no matter how well he paid her or how gently he treated her. The woman wouldn’t interfere. She’d simply let Ballas do what needed to he done.

  Muffled footsteps came from the corridor. The woman’s breathing faltered. With his free hand, the one not gripping his knife, Ballas lightly took hold of her upper arm. Something bumped dully against the door.

  Ballas waited for the door to open.

  And waited.

  A voice from the other side said, ‘Elspeth, I told you to leave the door open! My hands are full; I can’t reach the handle. Stir yourself, and help me.’

  Ballas swept the woman towards the bed. She stumbled, sprawling upon the mattress. Spinning round, Ballas seized the ring-handle and wrenched open the door.

  Egren Callen stood on the threshold. In his arms he held a silver serving tray, laden with bread, cheese and two mugs of steaming liquid. He was a youngish man, with neatly cropped black hair. His eyebrows were very dark, and thick stubble covered his jaw. He wore a silken dressing gown and a pair of leather boots: an absurd combination, intended merely for the walk to the privy and the larder.

  His gaze met Ballas’s.

  For a moment nothing happened.

  Then Ballas punched Callen in the face, hard. The young man staggered backwards into the corridor. The blow had been powerful; blood spurted from Callen’s nose. Yet he did not fall. Charging at Ballas, he cracked the serving tray edge-on into the big man’s forehead. Sparks flared in Ballas’s vision. Grunting, he stumbled back a step.

  Then wet darkness swept over his eyes.

  Swearing, he dragged his hand across his face. His palm came away soaked in blood. The blow had split open his forehead. For a moment he could see. Then blood poured into his eyes again.

  Sleeving it away, he saw Callen sprinting towards his clothes, heaped at the far side of the bed. Swearing, Ballas ran at him—just as Callen, snatching at his tangled breeches, unsheathed a dagger from the belt. Ballas swung an uppercut that slammed shut Callen’s jaw. The young man toppled backwards against the wall, upending a bedside table. A bowl of burning herbs tipped on to the floor. His knife held low, Ballas advanced.

  Callen scrambled to his feet. With his free hand, Ballas wiped blood from his brow—again and again.

  ‘A problem, stranger?’ gritted Callen, grinning balefully.

  Ballas said nothing. A blood-trickle crept into his eye. For an instant he was half blinded. Callen leaped at him. His knife blade jabbed towards Ballas’s stomach—but the big man knocked his hand away. Jumping forward, he drove his dagger down at Callen’s collarbone. The young man dived sideways. Overbalancing, Ballas tripped headlong. Blood poured into his eyes once more. Wiping it away, he spun and hurled the knife where he thought … where he knew Callen would be.

  In the firelight, the knife flashed. Ballas’s aim was true: the weapon headed straight for the young man. Yet Callen had seized the whore and jerked her in front of himself.

  Time stood still. The dagger hung suspended, as if gripped by some invisible hand. There was a cold gleam on Callen’s eyes. And in the whore’s eyes Ballas could see … was certain he could see the dagger’s reflection: a tiny splinter of light, glowing in each dark iris.

  The dagger spun, slamming into the whore’s breastbone. She teetered back against Callen and looked down numbly at her nightdress. Blood blotched the linen. She gasped, faintly. Then she collapsed, face down on the mattress.

  Turning, Callen ran for the door.

  Leaping over the bed, Ballas intercepted him. Dropping his knife, the big man punched Callen in the face, again and again. Each blow shook the young man’s body. Each punch landed with such force that Callen seemed incapable of resisting. He simply allowed Ballas to strike him. Like a man adrift on a storm-struck ocean submits to the raging waters.

  When Ballas stopped, the young man’s face was a face no more—just a glistening blood-mask. With each breath, a bubble of blood swelled and popped on his lips.

  ‘Who … are you?’ he rasped.

  Ballas did not reply. With studied deliberation, he stooped to retrieve his knife. When he looked u
p Callen was stumbling towards the window.

  Ballas frowned, curious.

  The young man swung open the window. Then he clambered out on to a ledge. Very carefully, he edged out of view.

  Ballas walked to the window.

  The ledge was wide—so wide that even a punch-drunk man could walk along it.

  Pressed flat to the wall, Callen tried to shout. ‘Guards— help me!’ His voice was an inaudible croak. ‘Guards …’

  Ballas watched him coolly.

  Callen returned his gaze. ‘I have money … if you are a robber, I can give you much, and I will say nothing to the Wardens. I swear it! I will—’

  Ballas hurled his knife. Once more, his aim was true. And this time, there was nothing to stop it striking home.

  The blade sank into Callen’s thigh. The young man gave a startled cry. Then he reflexively lifted his foot, taking weight off the damaged limb.

  In that instant, his balance left him.

  His arms flailing, blood drizzling from his mouth as he screamed, he fell backwards … fifty feet on to a patch of stone tiles. He struck the ground with a sound that was half thud, half crunch. A lone guard heard it.

  ‘Sweet grief! Oh, sweet grief! Callen—he has fallen!’

  He looked up at the window. Ballas stared down at him.

  ‘There is someone there! In Callen’s room!’

  Other guards ran over. They gazed up at Ballas.

  Ballas stared down calmly at them. To escape, he would have to fight his way through the guards. Men who were husbands and fathers, brothers and sons … whose death would spread grief among the innocent. Among those who were to suffer merely because they loved them.

  Ballas grunted. It would not be a problem. Not for him.

  Later, much later, after Ballas had left Callen’s home and no longer felt in his fist the heft of a sword stolen from a guard … no longer felt in his shoulders echoes of the jarring crunch of steel striking bone … he returned to the Scarlet Ghost.

  Darkness cloaked the tavern. Ballas tried the front door; it was bolted shut. Silently, he stood underneath the window of his lodging room. Stooping, he picked up a few small stones and tossed them at the shutters. They rattled against the wood. Retrieving several more stones, he repeated the action.

  The shutters opened.

  Lugen Crask peered out. ‘Who is there?’ he hissed—as if he were a strong, brave man who would retaliate against any threat, any unwanted guest.

  ‘Go downstairs,’ said Ballas, ‘and open the front door.’ To his own ears, his voice sounded odd—flatter than usual. And thick with fatigue.

  He walked to the front door. After a short wait, he heard bolts slide. The door opened. Lugen Crask stood on the threshold. In his left hand he held a candle.

  ‘Be quick,’ he whispered. ‘We mustn’t wake the landlord. It would be a terrible thing, to be reported to the Wardens for such a petty thing as … oh, I do not know: but this feels like trespass. A man ought not to move furtively through another’s home.’ He glanced back, through the dark common room. ‘Hurry,’ he added.

  Slowly, Ballas stepped through. He walked heavy-footedly behind the serving bar, and took a whisky flagon from a shelf.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Crask sounded frightened. ‘That … that is theft. We must be careful—isn’t that what you insisted? All that business about staying on horseback?’

  Ignoring him, Ballas went up the steps to his lodging room. Crask followed close behind. Once they were inside, Crask shut the door and lit a tallow lamp. Orange-yellow light filled the room. Upon the bed, sleeping atop the blankets, lay Crask’s daughter. The sudden light woke her. She opened her eyes—and stared at Ballas, her expression unreadable.

  Ballas glanced at Crask. He too was staring—but his feelings were apparent. His mouth gaped, his eyes were wide.

  ‘What … what has happened? Where have you been? What have you done? Oh, sweet grief: tell me you haven’t fought with more Wardens?’

  Ballas caught his reflection in a small wall-mirror. Blood-splashes speckled his tunic and leggings. More damp reddish-brown flecks covered his face. Dried blood covered his hands; it looked like he was wearing gloves of Caginnian silk.

  He uncorked the flagon and sat on the floor. He took a deep mouthful. The hot liquid swirled down his throat. It burned softly as it went, and Ballas sagged back against the wall.

  Crask and Heresh gazed at him as if he had undergone some shocking transformation—as if he had turned from a merely terrible creature into something truly appalling.

  Ballas closed his eyes. Even the darkness seemed red.

  Chapter 13

  And they travelled towards Scarrendestin,

  A mountain of holiness

  And great power …

  Ballas awoke.

  The taste of whisky hung thickly in his mouth. Beneath it, a different taste—something metallic, coppery.

  Blood, he realised.

  Grimacing, he opened his eyes. His chin resting on his chest, he saw first the blood upon his tunic front. Then that which coated his hands.

  Grunting, he looked up.

  Lugen Crask and his daughter were seated on the bed. They stared at him. Ballas wondered if they had been watching him all night. Shifting slightly, he felt his muscles ache: his shoulders, back, chest, legs … it seemed that no part of him had escaped the after-effects of strenuous exertion. He flexed his fingers: they were stiff, and the joints burned: the previous night, he had spent much time gripping a sword hilt. An unaccustomed activity—one that he hadn’t indulged in for many years until recently.

  He drew a breath. How many men had he killed? He could not remember. He hadn’t kept track. He was a killer—not an accountant.

  He looked at Crask. Then at Heresh. Both were pale, tired-looking. Behind them, light edged the window shutters.

  ‘What hour is it?’ asked Ballas, pushing himself upright. His voice was a whisky-scoured rasp. He looked at the flagon, gripped loosely in his left hand. Some liquid remained; he drank it in a single swallow. His throat was numb, and he hardly felt the whisky trickling into his stomach.

  ‘Halfway between dawn and noon,’ replied Lugen Crask. Licking his lips, it seemed he wished to say more. Yet he held his silence.

  ‘I need fresh clothes. Bring me some.’

  ‘What … ?’ said Crask numbly.

  ‘I can’t wear these,’ snapped Ballas, smacking a hand against his bloodied tunic. ‘They’d draw attention, don’t you think? You’ve got money. Buy me new clothes.’

  ‘You … you cannot treat us like this,’ said Crask softly.

  Ballas stared heavily at him.

  ‘You have already taken advantage of us. You have threatened us into doing your bidding. But now you have gone too far.’ He glanced nervously at his daughter. ‘Last night—what did you do? We—we cannot, will not help you, until we know. Up till now, your violence has been …’

  ‘The word you are looking for,’ said Ballas, ‘is useful. I’ve kept you alive. If you want to live a little longer, you’ll do what I say.’

  ‘Whose blood marks you?’ asked Crask, as if Ballas had not spoken.

  ‘That is not your business.’

  ‘Whose blood?’

  ‘No one you’d know—or care about.’

  ‘That is not an answer …’

  ‘It’s the only one you’ll get.’ Ballas slammed the whisky flagon on to the floor. ‘Now: get me new clothes. All right?’

  Sighing, Crask took out his purse and tipped a few coins into his daughter’s palm. ‘Do as he tells you,’ he said, quietly. And be careful, yes?’

  Rising, Heresh left the room. Crask watched her go. Then he looked evenly at Ballas. ‘We shall not serve you for ever,’ he said.

  Saying nothing, Ballas got to his feet. He moved to a small table on which rested a water bowl. He rinsed his face, then rubbed away the dried blood-flecks.

  ‘You will serve me,’ he said eventually, ‘as long as I say.
Don’t forget that the Wardens are still hunting you. Your daughter, like myself, is a killer.’

  ‘We have brought you to Jonas Elsefar,’ said Crask. ‘We have fulfilled our promise. Does that mean nothing to you?’

  Ballas gazed at himself in the mirror. A few blood-spots stained his stubble. He wiped them away. ‘I don’t know if Elsefar will be of use. Last night, I did his bidding …’

  ‘What?’ Crask frowned.

  ‘You didn’t expect him to help me for nothing?’

  ‘Oh, so you performed some … some morbid errand, yes? To earn his loyalty … no: not loyalty—for no sane man could feel such a thing towards you … To earn his compliance, you … you did what, exactly?’

  Ballas did not reply.

  Lugen Crask picked at his beard. ‘You murdered—that is it, isn’t it? Oh, I don’t expect you to answer. You prefer silence. As if a man who doesn’t admit his crimes is not guilty.’ He folded his arms. Something—fear, perhaps—had made him defiant. ‘The Church is seeking you; and you do not want to die. That I can well understand. But it is said that a man’s decency and courage are measured not by those things he does in life but by those things he refuses to do in order to preserve his life.’ He looked Ballas up and down. ‘You, though, are capable of any foulness, aren’t you? Tell me, what is your trade?’

  ‘I have no trade. I’m a vagrant—that is all.’

  ‘And before that? No—do not tell me. Allow me to guess. It was something despicable, yes? What were you: a whore-master? A thief? Hm? They are solitary professions. I cannot imagine you working alongside others. But maybe you did. Have you worked the seas, as an exporter of whores? And importer of forbidden herbs? Perhaps that is too great an effort. Maybe you were part of a raiding team. Yes, you have the look of a brigand—’

  Ballas smacked an open hand against Crask’s head—a powerful blow that sent Crask hurtling across the room. He struck the wall, then slid to the floor. Ballas stepped closer. The former smuggler curled into a ball.