Monument

by Ian Graham

  Springing forward, Ballas swatted the knife from the young man’s hand. The blade flew glinting across the room. Snatching his wrist, Ballas hauled him to his feet.

  ‘Please! Don’t hurt me!’ cried the young man.

  He must have been at least eighteen years old, yet he had the gawkiness of an adolescent. His limbs were spindly. Ballas could feel his wrist bones against his own palm.

  ‘Who are you?’ hissed the big man.

  ‘Please, be merciful!’

  ‘Answer me, damn it! Or I swear I’ll rip your bloody guts out!’

  The young man’s knees buckled. Sliding to the floor, he curled into a ball. ‘You are the sinner,’ he said. ‘Oh, sweet grief! I knew I shouldn’t have stayed here! I knew I should have gone home!’

  Ballas reached out to grasp his nightshirt collar. But Heresh placed a hand on his wrist. Ballas glanced at her. She shook her head, then kneeled beside the young man.

  ‘You will not be harmed,’ she said, ‘if you do as we say. Do you understand?’

  The young man nodded.

  ‘Now, tell us who you are.’

  ‘The archivist’s apprentice,’ he said, wretchedly.

  ‘You know your way around this place?’ growled Ballas. His tone was hard, forceful—the apprentice’s whole body flinched.

  ‘Do you?’ asked Heresh, more gently.

  ‘I’ve been here two years,’ replied the apprentice, ‘and my knowledge of the Hall is as good—almost—as my master’s.’

  ‘Then you can be of use,’ said Ballas. ‘On your feet.’

  The apprentice got up. And shivered. His gaze flitted anxiously from Ballas to Heresh, then back again. ‘You are the sinner,’ he said once more, ‘from the Decree …’

  ‘Yeah,’ agreed Ballas. ‘And you were going to kill me?’ He gestured at the parchment knife.

  The apprentice shook his head. ‘I—I wished only to save myself.’

  ‘Then we’re not too different, you and me,’ said Ballas. ‘To save your own life, you’re willing to kill. And so am I. The woman spoke the truth. Help us, and you’ll leave here unharmed. Understand?’

  ‘I don’t want to die.’

  ‘Then be sensible,’ replied Ballas. ‘In here, somewhere, there’s a map of the sewers under Granthaven.’

  ‘Sewers? There are no—’

  ‘Don’t argue!’ snapped Ballas. ‘You must find it—and quickly. All right?’

  The apprentice breathed out shakily. ‘I didn’t want to sleep here. But my master made me. He said someone must remain with the books, so that none are stolen.’ He shook his head, angrily. ‘My master is a fool. What use am I against someone like you? Or against anyone, for that matter. For all his learning, he can be damnably stupid!’

  The apprentice took a lantern from the table. Ballas ushered him into the Hall.

  ‘A map of the sewers,’ murmured the young man. ‘If it truly exists, it will be up on the third floor. We keep all the architectural documents up there.’

  They climbed the stairways to the third floor. Countless parchments were stored around the room’s edge, squeezed into twenty-foot-tall cases. The middle of each floor was empty air, a central well around which ran galleries overlooking the lower floors. Approaching the oak balustrade, Ballas looked down. He could see little except darkness, yet he felt a mild touch of vertigo. He was, he estimated, eighty feet above the ground. He sensed the black emptiness below, and saw in his mind’s eye the hard floorboards at the bottom. He stared, and the momentary unease passed. Grunting dismissively, he turned to the apprentice.

  ‘Well?’ he said.

  ‘This way,’ said the young man, leading them further along.

  They halted. The apprentice peered at markings etched into a case. Then he nodded. ‘It is in here somewhere,’ he said, gesturing at the ranked parchments.

  ‘Find it,’ said Ballas.

  ‘It may take some time,’ muttered the apprentice, frowning. He glanced unhappily at Ballas. ‘My master’s traits ill suit him to his trade. He is an archivist—yet he is also slothful, and disinclined to place things in order. When I said it is in here somewhere, I was not talking idly. This section is a jumble. I do not—’

  ‘Find it.’ The big man’s voice roared like thunder. The apprentice recoiled, growing calm again only when Heresh placed a hand on his shoulder. He looked uneasily at her.

  ‘The sinner,’ she said, eyeing Ballas, ‘has a few virtues— but patience is not one of them. Work quickly, and you will please him. As soon as the map is found, all will be well.’

  The apprentice got a wheeled ladder from further along the gallery and rolled it to the shelves. Climbing to the top, he took a parchment from the upper shelf, looked at it, shook his head, then replaced the document. He repeated this action for the next two parchments. Heresh had spoken correctly. Patience was not a virtue that Ballas possessed. The big man’s skin bristled, his guts knotted in frustration. The apprentice’s movements were delicate, over-careful—prissy, even.

  ‘Get down,’ said Ballas.

  The apprentice stared from the top of the ladder.

  ‘Must I say everything twice?’ shouted Ballas.

  The apprentice scrambled to the floor. Gripping the sides of the ladder, Ballas clambered to the upper shelf—then swept down its contents. A pile of parchments tumbled flapping around the apprentice. Ballas stepped down to the shelf below and did the same again—and again and again, until he leaped from the ladder and cleared the bottommost shelves.

  The apprentice stared wide-eyed, as if Ballas had committed sacrilege.

  ‘Find the bloody map,’ said Ballas. ‘When you’ve looked over a parchment, throw it aside.’

  Kneeling, the apprentice did as he was told. He worked quickly now. Parchments were unfolded, scrolls unfurled; he swept his gaze over each and, finding them unsatisfactory, tossed them into a heap to one side. The young man’s eyes glinted. He seemed happy, as if taking a perverse joy from the procedure. Ballas wondered if, accustomed to order, he was enjoying the creation of chaos. Perhaps his future, as an archivist, would consist of nothing but the careful treatment of texts—and, right now, he was savouring his sole period of recklessness. Ballas sniffed. Often, educated men loved most the practices of the ignorant.

  Heresh touched his shoulder, then led the big man away from the apprentice.

  ‘What are you going to do with him?’ she asked, at a whisper. The apprentice continued scanning the parchments. ‘He will deduce, sooner or later, that we plan to use the map to escape from the city. Sweet grief—he has probably already done so. And for us, that is dark news. If he tells the Wardens—’

  ‘He won’t,’ said Ballas.

  Heresh looked at him uncertainly.

  ‘I’ll tie the boy up,’ explained Ballas, ‘and leave him in his room. His master won’t be back before dawn. By then, we’ll be well away. As soon as he’s found the map, we’ll go back to the cathedral. We’ll get your father and Elsefar, and leave this piss-awful city.’

  Heresh looked calmly at Ballas. ‘It would be more efficient to kill him. His silence would be assured.’ In her voice, there was a type of dark suggestiveness.

  ‘You want him to die?’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t. But you do,’ she replied. ‘It is in your nature to be ruthless.’

  ‘Ruthless? Maybe. But I’m not …’ he groped for the proper word ‘… indiscriminate. When the need arises, I kill. But otherwise?’ He shook his head.

  Heresh’s stare did not falter. ‘Perhaps you’d be doing the boy a favour.’

  Ballas frowned.

  ‘Think what you have done to him. You have forced him to do your bidding—to aid a sinner, to help the subject of a Decree of Annihilation escape capture.’

  ‘Forced him.’ Ballas nodded. ‘He isn’t helping us because he wants to. But because he has to.’

  ‘I doubt the Wardens will be sympathetic to that argument. It is his duty to try to kill you—isn’t tha
t what the Decree says? Unto every citizen, regardless of rank, wealth, age or sex, falls the duty; in accord with the Four’s will, of killing Anhaga Ballas. He has hardly tried, has he? He sat on his pallet-bid, cringing in fear. Nothing else. In itself, that makes him a criminal.’ Heresh drew a breath. ‘He is not strong. Look at him: he was probably the runt of his parents’ litter. But such types are often sharp-minded. Many people apply to become archivist’s apprentices. Only a few are accepted. He isn’t a halfwit, Ballas. Perhaps he has already worked out that if he doesn’t try to kill you he will be arrested.’

  Ballas shook his head. ‘He’s too frightened to think clearly. He can’t see past the present moment.’ He shrugged. ‘And if the Church decides to punish him—so what? I can’t be blamed for their cruelty.’

  They returned to the apprentice. The young man continued sifting through the texts, inspecting each of them. Eventually, he reached the final one. He unfolded it, and peered closely at it. His strangely contented expression faded. He looked anxiously at Ballas.

  ‘What?’ said the big man.

  The apprentice did not speak—he merely turned his face to Heresh.

  ‘The map is not there?’ asked the red-haired woman.

  The apprentice shook his head. ‘I am sorry …’

  ‘Pilgrims’ blood,’ murmured Ballas. ‘Are you certain? Did you check every parchment? You’d better not have made any errors, boy—’

  ‘I did my best. And the sewer-map is not here.’ He wrung his hands—a mannerism belonging to someone far older. ‘I never make mistakes. That is why my master employs me. He says I am as keen-eyed as—’

  ‘Pissing hell!’ snapped Ballas. Once more, he felt suddenly claustrophobic. The city of Granthaven seemed no larger than a prison cell. The sky, the air, the mud of the roadways—all seemed to conspire to imprison him. He swung his boot through the parchments, scattering several over the balustrade. They drifted soundlessly into darkness before pattering on to the floor below.

  ‘Do not kill me,’ said the apprentice. ‘Please—I have helped you as far as I can! I …’ His voice trailed off. A frown touched his brow. His gaze drifted to the next case of parchments. ‘Perhaps … perhaps there has been overspill.’

  ‘Overspill?’ said Ballas.

  Rising, the apprentice wheeled the ladder to the case. Monkey-nimble, he clambered up. He took down the first parchment, glanced at it, then replaced it. He did the same for the second. Ballas felt his anger rising—

  Then the apprentice said, ‘I’ve got it!’

  Ballas looked up, surprised.

  ‘I’ve found it!’ said the apprentice, waving a folded rectangle of parchment.

  At that instant a dull boom rolled through the Archive Hall. Startled, the apprentice swayed upon the ladder, grasping a rung to steady himself. Heresh looked to Ballas, her eyes wide. A second boom rang out. Ballas moved to the balustrade and peered down.

  Through the windows he made out a group of figures. Squinting, Ballas estimated there were eight or nine of them perhaps more. Several torches blazed, the fire glimmering upon the glass.

  There was a third thud. The door shook on its hinges.

  ‘Open up!’ someone shouted. ‘Or I swear we’ll smash our way in!’ The voice was that of a man in his late teens: it had a jarring unevenness, as if it was yet to find its proper timbre.

  Ballas turned to the apprentice. ‘Give me the map.’

  His face pale, the apprentice tossed Ballas the document. ‘Who is out there? What are they doing?’

  ‘We must have been seen,’ said Ballas, tucking the map behind his belt. ‘Is there a back way out?’

  ‘The hall can be entered, or left, only by the front doors.’ The apprentice clambered shakily from the ladder. ‘There is no other way—’

  Another boom sounded. Then a rattling crash, as the lock burst and the door slammed open. A dozen men poured on to the ground floor. Three held torches. The flames sent shadows sprawling across the walls. The figures moved to the centre of the floor where they stood motionless, scanning the Hall for any other living souls.

  ‘We know you are here, sinner!’ shouted a figure. ‘We can bloody sense you, you evil bastard! We are here to do the Church’s bidding. We will fulfil the Decree of Annihilation. The only question is, do we kill you quickly—or slowly? Show yourself, and we shall be merciful. But hide, and we’ll take our time when we butcher you. We’ll rip out your guts and garland you with them. We’ll slice out your heart and thrust it down your throat.’

  Ballas drew back from the balustrade. ‘Stay silent,’ he whispered to the apprentice.

  ‘Are we to fight them?’ asked Heresh, her voice steady.

  Ballas did not reply. It was impossible to know what to do. Creeping back to the balustrade, he stared down at them. In the torchlight he discerned the faces of young men—each one scarcely out of adolescence. He recalled a group of youths outside a tavern, getting soused on ha’penny jugs of cider. He thought that he and Heresh had passed unnoticed. Clearly, he had been mistaken.

  He drew a breath.

  This was to be the young men’s finest hour, Ballas realised. They would kill the sinner—and for ever after they’d talk of their courage. They would use Ballas’s death to lure women into their beds. They would boast loudly of it in taverns, earning the admiration of their fellows. And, once they settled and had children, they would present themselves to their young as near-legendary figures: as noble, and courageous as anyone from the old myths.

  Ballas sensed their excitement. And knew that it crackled perilously close to fear.

  ‘Let us see how brave they are,’ he murmured, drawing his knife.

  Moving to the balustrade, he hurled the weapon downwards. It vanished into darkness, reappearing an instant later as a firelight-struck flash of gold. The blade spun before sinking into a torch-wielder’s throat. The youth pitched backwards, flinging the torch in the air. It struck the ground, burning happily on the wooden floor. Another youth snatched it up, stamping out the flames as he did so.

  Several others stared at the corpse.

  ‘Malcrin?’ One figure kneeled, touching his fingertips to the knife hilt protruding from his friend’s throat. ‘Sweet grief—he is dead!’ He looked up at the balustrade. But Ballas had already stepped back. ‘Look—look what he has done!’ the figure persisted. ‘He has used magic, surely! No man’s aim is so true—’

  ‘He was lucky,’ said a second figure. ‘Even sinners enjoy occasional good fortune.’

  Something moved in the corner of Ballas’s eye. The apprentice was running away, his nightshirt flapping around his ankles. He sprinted to the staircase, then hurried down to the figures.

  ‘I am a friend!’ he shouted, as he drew close. ‘A friend to you, and no ally to the sinner! I promise you: I crave his death as fiercely as you do! Were I strong enough, I’d have gralloched him myself!’

  He half-stumbled to the figures.

  ‘I am the archivist’s apprentice,’ he explained, moving into the torches’ glow. ‘He made me do his bidding!’

  ‘He is up there, yes?’ asked a figure.

  ‘Him—and a woman, who acts as if she is … a sweet, harmless thing. But how can she be, when she keeps such vile company?’

  ‘And there are no others?’

  ‘None. And I promise you, neither of them is a demon. Or a magicker. If they were, they wouldn’t have needed my help. They are but ordinary people—that is all. You need not fear them.’

  Huddling together, the young men plotted their next move. Suddenly, the apprentice spun on his heel and raced out of the Archive Hall. One of them tried to grasp his nightshirt collar. But the apprentice was too fast. Ballas watched him vanish out of the door, into the street.

  ‘Bastard!’ said one of the youths loudly. ‘Now we must act with haste. Otherwise …’ His voice softened to an inaudible whisper.

  ‘Otherwise what?’ finished Heresh, looking to Ballas.

  ‘Otherwise,’ sai
d the big man, ‘there’ll be Wardens here, and those young men’ll be robbed of their glory.’

  Then we too must act with haste,’ said Heresh. ‘But I don’t see—’

  ‘Wait.’

  Ballas thought a moment. Then he strode to the balustrade.

  ‘You’re seeking me, right?’ he shouted. His voice shook the walls, and threatened to blast the windows from their frames. As one, every figure jumped. ‘If you want to take my life, come to me. We’ll see how well you do.’ Ballas gestured to Heresh. She moved to stand beside him. ‘We’re waiting for you. We aren’t going anywhere. After all, where can we go? It’s up to you.’

  ‘What in the Four’s name are you playing at?’ hissed Heresh, seizing Ballas’s forearm.

  ‘I’m letting them know where we are,’ said Ballas. ‘And I’m offering us up as bait. Now,’ his voice dropped, ‘we must see how smart they are. If they split up, with one group going that way—’ he gestured around the far side of the gallery ‘—and the other going this way—’ he gestured in the opposite direction ‘—they can trap us. We won’t be able to run. And perhaps we’ll prove easier to kill.’

  ‘And if they aren’t smart?’ queried Heresh. ‘If they come as a single group?’

  Ballas did not reply.

  The figures climbed the first staircase. Then the second. At the top of the third, they paused: a knot of dark, shadow-garbed shapes, half-haloed in torchlight. Then they broke apart, forming two groups. One group moved off to the gallery’s far side. The other headed towards Ballas and Heresh.

  Ballas grasped the woman’s upper arm. ‘Stay with me,’ he said.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Just do as I say.’

  The nearest group moved cautiously forward.

  ‘Come on, sinner,’ said the youth at the front. Of his features, Ballas discerned only shadows: eye sockets, darkly pooled, and a pockmark-stippled jaw. ‘Don’t bring us up here and then run away. Our offer still stands. Show yourself, and we’ll slaughter you quickly. Play cat and mouse, and your sufferings will seem endless. Be grateful we’re offering you a choice.’