Monument

by Ian Graham

  ‘So?’

  ‘He said that, in its form, it was a typical vision. He saw three chalices, each filled with a different substance. The chalices denote the past, present and future conditions of one’s soul. In the first chalice—your soul’s past—there was wheat. That meant that, to begin with, your soul was contented. You were happy.’

  ‘Horseshit,’ muttered Ballas.

  ‘The second chalice—your soul’s present health—was filled with blood.’

  Ballas laughed loudly, coarsely. ‘That means violence, or something, I suppose.’

  ‘It means …’ Crask groped for the proper word ‘turmoil. And, yes—violence.’

  ‘It seems that those who take root,’ muttered Ballas, ‘become predictable.’

  ‘The blood was that of a lioness,’ continued Crask, unperturbed. ‘For, in the background, such a beast lay dead. Its throat had been slit. This indicates that there was, ah, something noble about your violence. But also something tragic. You see, the lioness’s stomach was swollen—she was gravid.’

  Ballas muttered something to himself.

  ‘The third chalice,’ began Crask.

  ‘Yes?’ interrupted Ballas, bored and irritated. ‘What was it this time? More blood? Or bloody goat’s piss?’

  ‘The third chalice,’ breathed Crask, ‘was empty.’

  Ballas glanced up at Crask.

  ‘The old man could not understand it. Your soul existed in the past, and—obviously—exists in the present. Yet it is not there in the future. Which makes no sense. Because souls endure. They do not pass away, they do not vanish. They endure after death. They leave this world and go to the Eltheryn Forest. They remain, Ballas. They are not scrubbed out of being.’

  ‘Pah! You reckon it’s smart to trust an old idiot who’s been eating visionary’s root? You reckon such men are wise?’

  ‘It is said that visionary’s root does provide insight. That is why the Church outlawed it.’

  ‘The Church outlawed it,’ said Ballas, thinking back to the barge-master, ‘because it created visions that people were half-witted enough to believe in.’

  Crask shook his head. ‘I—I can’t help thinking there is something in it. Such practices, if they fail to bear fruit, do not endure—’

  ‘People enjoy visionary’s root,’ said Ballas. ‘They like it because it makes them feel wise. But they aren’t wise. Pilgrims’ blood! At least we drunks are honest: we know it does nothing except make us happy. We don’t dress it up as something deep.’

  ‘In the Distant East, the caliphs employ gakria-eaters as advisers …’

  In the Distant East,’ said Ballas, ‘widows are burned alongside their husbands’ corpses. And they eat dogs—because they want to, not because they have to.’ He snorted. ‘Don’t look to the East, Crask. It is a place of dust and stupidity.’

  Crask grew very still. ‘You are telling me that all I have spoken is false?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And that in your past you did not act nobly?’

  Ballas nodded.

  Crask smiled. ‘There is something I did not tell you. In the old man’s vision, the lioness whose blood fed the second chalice was blind.’

  ‘What of it?’

  It suggests a particular type of ignorance. The lioness did not know what it truly was. It did not know it was noble. Nor do you understand what you are.’

  Ballas stared evenly at Crask. ‘Horseshit,’ he said.

  ‘When we last escaped the Wardens, you saved my daughter’s life. And I think I saw something there … a glimmer of something that once was in you, but now—’

  Footfalls echoed along the sewer tunnel. Crask started, surprised.

  ‘Concentrate on the Wardens who are coming,’ said Ballas, rising. Not on those we’ve already avoided.’

  Crask left Ballas, returning to the left-hand passage. Ballas shuttered the lantern completely, and the sewer tunnel sank into darkness.

  In the dark he saw the three chalices. And the blinded lioness. ‘You are an idiot, Crask,’ he muttered.

  Footsteps hammered along the sewer tunnel. Lantern light pierced the gloom. Shadows sprawled over the walls. Rising, Ballas gripped his knife hilt tightly. A faint melancholia lay upon him. It was a product, he presumed, of his tiredness. As his anger had been. Often, when he was weary, dark moods preyed upon him.

  He thought fleetingly of Belthirran. And his unhappiness lessened, then vanished. It would be worth staying alive if he could reach the Land Beyond the Mountains. All the sick feelings that pressed upon him—his bitterness and anger—would fade away.

  Watching the tunnel, he licked his lips.

  The lantern light brightened. The footsteps drummed louder. A group of Wardens ran out of the dark. Five of them, Ballas counted. In the gloom, their features were indistinct—a massing of shadows. The Scarrendestin triangles stitched on to their tunic fronts were visible. So too were their swords and knives.

  Approaching the forking passages, they halted.

  ‘Which way, do you think?’ asked a Warden.

  A second Warden sniffed the air—and Ballas sprang at him, driving his knife blade into his stomach. Spinning, Ballas drove his fist into the face of the Warden who’d spoken, felling him. A third Warden drew his sword, but Heresh hurtled out from the other passageway, ramming her knife into his side. It was a clumsy, poorly aimed strike. The blade didn’t sink even hilt-deep. Yet the blow startled the Warden. Crying out, he instinctively reached to cover the wound. Crask sprinted out and kicked him hard in the guts. The Warden sank to his knees, the sword slithering from his fingers. Crask retrieved the weapon, and hacked awkwardly at his back. It was a powerful blow, but because of Crask’s clumsiness the blade scarcely pierced the Warden’s flesh. Snatching the sword from Crask, Ballas delivered a neck-splitting chop. The man slumped, dead.

  ‘Look out!’ shouted Heresh.

  Whirling, Ballas raised his sword, blocking another Warden’s down-stroke. Blades clashed, flinging off sparks. Deflecting the Warden’s blade, Ballas stepped forward, smashing his forehead into the Warden’s nose. He collapsed, dazed.

  One Warden remained standing. He glanced fearfully at Ballas. Then, turning, he sprinted away along the tunnel.

  Drawing back his arm, Ballas hurled the sword at the Warden as if he was throwing a spear. The blade sank into the fleeing man’s lower back. Crying out, he fell face down.

  Ballas gestured at the other Wardens who were sprawled on the ground. ‘Make sure they’re dead—those two I only knocked out need killing, for a start,’ he told Crask, then walked over to the sword-struck Warden.

  Wrenching out the sword, he rolled the Warden on to his back. Ballas noticed something unusual about the man’s tunic. Though fashioned from the usual blue cloth to indicate service to the Church, the Scarrendestin triangle bore bright red edges. Ballas realised he’d seen this design before. Seen it without realising it: on the tunics of the Wardens supervising the putting of heads on the Oak.

  They must be Wardens of the highest rank, thought Ballas. Wardens that the Masters trust absolutely.

  Ballas sat on the Warden’s chest. ‘How many more of you are in the sewers?’

  ‘None,’ replied the Warden, his voice rasping.

  Ballas looked at the sword—then threw it aside. A more precise tool was needed. He pulled out a thin-bladed knife. I’ll ask you again,’ he said, touching its tip to the Warden’s eyeball. ‘How many Wardens are on their way?’

  ‘None,’ repeated the Warden. ‘But you’ll die anyway. You are still being followed.’

  This puzzled Ballas. Had Under-Wardens entered the sewers? Or citizens of Granthaven?

  ‘Who are you talking about?’ demanded the big man.

  ‘I cannot tell you.’

  ‘No?’ Ballas tapped the blade’s tip against his eye. The Warden blinked, wildly. Then he tried to turn his face away. Grasping his jaw, Ballas forced him to stare upwards. He pressed knifepoint to eye socket. ‘Who?’
he asked, simply.

  ‘I have sworn an oath,’ said the Warden. ‘I shall not break it. I cannot break it.’

  ‘Cannot?’ Ballas shook his head. ‘I could make a saint curse the Four. I could turn a nun into a whore in a heartbeat. Don’t reckon your oath counts for anything.’

  ‘I didn’t speak loosely,’ said the Warden. ‘I cannot tell you. For my oath is binding in a way you can’t imagine.’

  ‘We shall see,’ said Ballas. Delicately, he scraped the knife tip over the man’s eyelid. It broke only the thinnest layer of skin. No blood emerged. Only tears as the Warden’s eyes watered furiously beneath their not-so-protective membranes. ‘Who is following us? Tell me, and I’ll spare you.’

  ‘What good will that do me? If I fail to kill you, I will forfeit my own life. My failure will not be tolerated.’

  ‘Then I’ll grant you an easy death. I’ll open an artery, and you’ll feel like you’re falling asleep.’

  ‘There’ll be no escape in death. Not for me. I’ll still be punished.’

  ‘This is your last chance,’ said Ballas, flatly.

  ‘Nothing has changed,’ replied the Warden. ‘I cannot tell you.’

  Ballas sank the blade into his eye socket. The Warden’s body jerked rigid. He cried out—a long keening noise, half-shriek, half-sob.

  ‘Tell me,’ said Ballas, gently.

  ‘I can’t! Be merciful—please!’

  Ballas moved the knife to the other eye. He lightly touched the blade to it.

  ‘Oh, by the Four’s goodness: don’t do this to me!!’

  Ballas sank the knife tip a quarter of an inch into the eyeball. The Warden screamed—and, as if he hadn’t willed it, he said, ‘It is Nu—’

  He fell silent abruptly. Then he arched his back, dislodging Ballas from his chest. The big man sprawled on the ground. The Warden’s body went into a frantic spasm. He clawed at the brick floor. His jaw hinged madly, teeth clashing. His less-damaged eye quivered feverishly in its socket. The tendons on his neck ridged out.

  For a moment Ballas believed it was a ruse. A false fit, intended to give the Warden a few seconds in which he could formulate a plan.

  Then Ballas saw the flames.

  A tongue of blue fire sprang from the Warden’s chest. Others erupted from his stomach. And then from his eyes—each a stabbing cone of flesh-blackening light. Steam swirled from his body and the Warden hissed like a grasshopper tossed on to a red hot grill. His tunic shrivelled. His hair sizzled to nothing. Soon the flames covered him. Yet still he writhed: a dark outline of a man, enfolded in dazzling, consuming blueness.

  Eventually he grew still. The flames died down. A few lingered, but now these were ordinary flames—yellow-orange, swaying softly.

  Suddenly Ballas understood. He knew what was pursuing them.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, snatching up the lantern.

  The others stared at the Warden.

  ‘How—how did that happen?’ Crask gaped. ‘Surely, there was magick in it—’

  Ballas listened for footsteps. He couldn’t hear any. That was good. At least their pursuer was some distance away.

  For the time being.

  ‘We have to get out of here,’ said Ballas. ‘We are being followed. And I don’t reckon we can outfight it.’

  ‘It?’ Crask frowned.

  Saying nothing, Ballas snatched up a sword. It would be of little use, he knew. But its presence comforted him.

  He moved to go deeper into the sewers. Jonas Elsefar grabbed his arm. He drew Ballas down, and whispered in his ear, ‘I don’t know what is coming after us. But remember, Ballas: it is in your interest to make sure that I live. If I die, you’ll never find Belthirran.’

  Ballas glanced at the quill-master. Then he strode away.

  They continued through the sewer tunnels. For the sake of speed, Ballas carried Jonas Elsefar. The low ceiling prevented him from slinging the crippled man over his shoulder, as he had in the streets of Granthaven. Instead, he bore the quill-master across his chest, as if he were a sleepy infant. Though Elsefar wasn’t heavy, it was awkward for Ballas, stooping to keep his head clear of the ceiling, to proceed like this. Yet it was faster than allowing Elsefar to propel himself onward.

  Crask watched Ballas. The big man felt the eel-catcher’s gaze upon him. He was frightened, Ballas knew. And his fear was not focused upon Wardens but on the nameless threat that pursued them through the sewers. The menace that had caused the Warden to burst into flames and that Ballas had not yet named.

  They hurried on. It was Crask who first detected an unfamiliar noise.

  ‘I hear something,’ he said, halting.

  Ballas paused. He felt Elsefar’s body against his chest: a sharp-edged jumble of bones. The quill-master breathed heavily.

  Crask looked back down the tunnel. ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘It is faint—but there is definitely something there.’

  Ballas did as he was asked. In the far distance, he heard a dull rasping sound—as of leather rubbing against stone. It grew slightly louder. As it did so, it took on a different quality: though still rasping, it seemed also to chatter—as if an infinity of tiny sibilant voices were speaking over one another.

  Crask looked wide-eyed at Ballas. ‘Is this it? The … the thing that chases us? That will destroy us?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Ballas replied honestly.

  Suddenly, at the end of the passage, the darkness of the wall and ceiling twitched. Then it thickened, growing almost solid. Spreading over the brickwork, it raced towards Ballas and the others. The rasping chatter grew in volume. Yet it was still far from loud. The air moved, slightly.

  Crask raised the lantern. Its yellow glow swept over the ceiling. And was reflected back by innumerable white eyes. Lizards’ eyes.

  Clinging to the walls, lizards coated the dark bricks: a dense blanket of pale shapes, so tightly clustered and moving so purposefully that they seemed a single organism. With frantic urgency, they raced along the sewer. Jostled by their kindred, a few lost their grips, falling to the floor before scrambling back on to their feet and vanishing along the tunnel. The rest surged onward, scrambling over one another. Their bodies brushed against each other, producing the rasping sound.

  Crask lowered the lantern. ‘I do not understand,’ he murmured. ‘What are they doing?’ He looked at Ballas, his eyes alight with sudden defiance. ‘What is hunting us? For certain, it is not men who frightened the lizards: they did not run from us, or from the Wardens. So what is it, hm? What thing, capable of conjuring flames from a man’s body—’

  ‘A Lectivin,’ said Ballas, sharply. Turning, he carried on walking briskly. He was afraid, he realised. He doubted that, even if he tried, he could force himself to stand still. Like the lizards, he was compelled irresistibly onwards.

  Crask scampered alongside him. ‘You are jesting, surely? Lectivins no longer exist. They were slaughtered during the Red War! And those that survived, those that remained upon the island Lectivae, were obliterated!’

  ‘One remains,’ said Ballas. ‘The Church has preserved him.’

  Ballas had little choice, but to recount—in the briefest terms—the events of the night he had almost been placed upon the Penance Oak. He spoke of Gerack’s agonies and his own escape.

  For a long time no one spoke. Then Elsefar laughed—a high, wheezing sound. ‘It seems you are worrying needlessly, Ballas. You have filled us with false fear. You have thwarted the Lectivin once already. Surely you would be able to do it again.’

  ‘The priest, Rendeage, reckons not. The Lectivin was partway through a magical ritual. It was distracted and I managed to surprise it. Now, though, he’ll be alert.’

  ‘This Lectivin—what caste was he?’

  ‘Rendeage says he was a hunter.’

  ‘The most bestial breed of Lectivin,’ said Crask, thoughtfully. ‘Elsefar, you—we—have cause for worry. Sweet grief! Historians say that, during the Red War, a single Lectivin hunter could kill fifty human fighters. F
ifty,’ he repeated. ‘And how many of us are there? Four—one of whom can’t stand up without help!’

  They redoubled their speed, half-jogging through the sewers.

  ‘That Warden—he intended to kill us,’ continued Crask. ‘But I can’t help but pity him. The oath he swore … the oath of secrecy … Such things were common among Lectivins. As soon as they could speak, they were forced to swear allegiance to Lectivae. If ever they nursed thoughts of betrayal—if they ever even doubted their country’s greatness—they were obliterated by fire. It seems such oaths can bind men as well as Lectivins.’

  They carried on for a short time. Then Ballas halted, abruptly. Something was wrong. The passage diverged into three separate passages. Ballas had half-memorised the route through the sewers—yet this branching was unfamiliar. Turning to Heresh, who held the map, Ballas clicked his fingers. The red-haired woman unfolded the map.

  Ballas peered at it. He was certain that he had taken no wrong turns. On the map, he retraced their steps and found that the tunnels corresponded with those down which they had travelled. They had followed the map exactly. Yet now the map did not match the actual layout. The passage should have continued straight onward, finally swerving left before splitting in two. Instead, they were confronted by three possible routes.

  Ballas swore. ‘The map is wrong,’ he said. ‘The bloody map is wrong!’

  ‘Let me see,’ said the quill-master.

  ‘If you have copied it badly, Elsefar, I’ll rip you apart!’

  ‘I do not make errors,’ retorted the quill-master. ‘And never have done. Now give it to me!’

  Heresh handed the map to Elsefar. The quill-master looked it over, then tapped a line of quillscript in the top right-hand corner. ‘This explains it,’ he said quietly. ‘This is not a map at all. Rather, it is a design.’

  ‘What’s the difference?’ snapped Ballas.

  ‘Oh, come,’ said Elsefar tightly. ‘Think for a moment. A map describes what is. A design, what might be, if the plans are brought to fruition. Now, this document is labelled “Version the Second”. So there might be other versions: a third, a fourth, a fifth … as many as it took the architect to settle on the final sewer layout. Clearly, he rejected this version. The central area of the sewers satisfied him, true enough. But its outer reaches, where we are now?’ He shook his head. ‘The design has taken us this far. But it’ll lead us no further.’