Monument

by Ian Graham

  ‘Masharrian red,’ said Laike, perching the goblet on the balustrade. ‘One of the most expensive wines in Druine. This particular flagon is forty years old. It is worth more than most people’s homes. I hope you enjoy it.’

  Ballas sipped the wine. To him, it tasted no different from Keltuskan red. He dimly acknowledged that years of whisky-drinking had shrivelled his taste buds.

  ‘I have simple tastes,’ said Laike. ‘I dislike ostentation. Yet sometimes one ought to be lavish, in order to mark a special occasion. It is not every day that I have such a visitor as yourself. A man of repute. Of notoriety. Tell me—’ he lifted the goblet to his lips ‘—why do you seek Belthirran?’

  ‘If I stay in Druine, I’ll be killed.’

  ‘True,’ said Laike, nodding his agreement.

  ‘And I can’t sail to the East. The harbours are sealed off.’ ‘That is also true.’

  ‘What choice do I have?’

  ‘A man always has a choice,’ said Laike. ‘You could retreat to the more remote areas of Druine.’

  ‘Someone would find me, sooner or later.’ In his mind’s eye, Ballas saw the Lectivin hunter, Nu’hkterin. And the shapeshifting crow-Wardens. ‘The Church has means you can’t even guess at.’

  ‘Do you fear the Church?’

  ‘I’ve no desire to die.’

  ‘That is not what I asked,’ replied Laike sharply. ‘Do you fear them?’

  The Wardens and Under-Wardens didn’t frighten Ballas. But the Penance Oak, the slow death upon the branches …

  ‘Yes,’ he replied softly.

  ‘Fear will drive a man to great lengths. If he is in a burning building, he will hurl himself from the highest window, knowing very well that the fall will kill him. To escape a fierce enemy upon a ship, he will leap over the side, into the sea—knowing very well that the waves will drown him. But these are spur-of-the-moment reactions. They spring from a terrible, terrified reflex. But your decision to find Belthirran—though possibly as suicidal as the reactions of those others—is one that you have had time to contemplate. Yet still you persist. Belthirran offers you more than a sanctuary, yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A chance to, ah, be born again?’

  Ballas shrugged. ‘Put it how you will,’ he muttered.

  Laike sipped at his wine. ‘How do you know Belthirran really exists?’

  The question, coming from Laike, struck Ballas as odd. ‘I can feel it,’ said the big man awkwardly. ‘And besides—you’ve been there, haven’t you?’

  Laike didn’t reply. Not for many moments. He ran a fingertip around his goblet’s rim. ‘Beirun,’ he said, loudly.

  The servant appeared. ‘Master?’

  ‘In the lumber room there is a casket of unpolished teak. Bring it to me.’

  The servant disappeared. He was gone for some time, during which Laike stared silently at the mountains. The explorer turned his head slightly, exposing part of his profile. Through the gloom, Ballas discerned a strong aquiline nose and a sleek jaw.

  ‘Have you ever set foot on the Garsbracks?’ Laike asked, turning his face away once more.

  ‘Never.’

  ‘There is music up on the mountains,’ said Laike. ‘In the streams, in the underground springs. In the winds blowing around the rocks. In the shaking rowan branches and the slow, steady crumbling of the soil. I suppose that I love the mountains. Certainly, I hold them in higher regard than any man—or woman—I have met. Yet … yet I am destroying them. My quarries are eating into the lower slopes. Once, this did not trouble me. I believed that a quarry team of gods, labouring for eternity, could not diminish the mountains. But now I am not so sure. Man is the most destructive creature. We are ambitious and persistent. If we wished, we could set the skies aflame … we could dry out the oceans, and hunt to extinction every creature on the face of the world.’ He sighed. ‘But if I were not quarrying the Garsbracks, someone else would be. The stone is the finest in existence. And the most profitable.’

  Laike fell silent. He didn’t speak again until Beirun returned.

  ‘I have it, master,’ said the servant, holding the casket.

  ‘Open it.’

  Beirun did so.

  ‘Hand the contents to our guest.’

  Beirun took out a piece of bone—a cow’s shoulder blade, Ballas thought. Beirun passed it to the big man. A map was etched into the surface. At the lowermost edge, the Garsbracks were represented by overlapping triangles. Above it was the outline of a land mass. Frowning, Ballas presumed he had the object the wrong way up. He turned it so that the Garsbracks lay to the north. And to the south, Druine.

  He drew in a breath sharply.

  The outline did not match that of Druine. Druine was large, sprawling; this other land mass was a ragged triangle, about a twentieth of Druine’s size.

  Ballas looked up.

  ‘You are surprised?’ asked Laike, tilting his head. ‘I heard you gasp.’

  ‘What is—’ began Ballas.

  ‘Beirun, leave us,’ said Laike. ‘Tend to the needs of our quest’s companion.’

  ‘As you wish.’ Beirun departed.

  ‘What is this?’ said Ballas.

  Laike held up a silencing hand. He appeared to be listening to something. The mountain’s music? wondered Ballas.

  The answer was less intriguing.

  ‘Beirun has left us,’ Laike said. ‘He is beyond earshot now. That is good. I trust him with my life. He is devoted to me. I could not wish for a more loyal servant. But he is a simple creature. He is not … not designed for complexities. His world doesn’t extend beyond the washing of clothes, the preparing of food … I have no wish to disturb his peace of mind.’ Laike took another sip of wine. ‘In your hands, Anhaga Ballas, you hold proof of Belthirran’s existence. Proof that there is such a place. Proof that it is populated.’

  Ballas gazed at the map.

  ‘I found it close to the Garsbracks’ highest point,’ explained Laike. ‘I confess it amused me, for it lay upon the Druine side of the mountain tops. I believed—and still believe—that it had been dropped by a denizen of Belthirran who’d been attempting the reverse of my own endeavour. Just as I sought Belthirran, they sought … whatever lay beyond their side of the mountains.’

  ‘Unless,’ said Ballas, ‘it was made by someone from Druine. Someone who’d already been into Belthirran.’

  ‘Unlikely,’ said Laike. ‘The map isn’t a practical object. The coast is outlined—nothing else is represented. How can one navigate from something so vague? Rather, I’d say the map is a ceremonial object. Or a keepsake, to remind the intrepid Belthirran explorer of home. Such things are not unknown. Besides, in Druine maps are quilled on to parchment—not etched into bone.’

  Ballas turned the map over in his hands. He felt exhilarated. Then doubt touched him. ‘You say this is proof of Belthirran …’

  ‘Yes.’

  But there must be more. You’ve seen Belthirran, haven’t you?’

  Laike was silent again. Then he shook his head.

  ‘What … ?’ gasped Ballas.

  ‘I have not seen the Land Beyond the Mountains.’

  ‘Elsefar said you wrote an account of—’

  ‘The account was false,’ said Laike. ‘When I was young, I hungered for fame. Of all hungers, it is the most ignominious. The most degrading. For it forces a man to act immorally. To cheat. To lie about himself. To slander others … My account of the ascent was true—to a point. I went as far up as is possible. But I never crossed the mountains. It cannot be done, Ballas.’

  A hollow feeling filled Ballas’s gut. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Fifty feet from the summit,’ explained Laike, ‘there is a sheer rock wall. It is as smooth as glass. There are no handholds. Nor is there any way around it. I walked the entire length of the Garsbracks. The wall continues without interruption. One might as well be a spider trying to climb out of porcelain cup.’

  Ballas felt irritated. ‘You should’ve used
a grappling hook.’

  ‘I did,’ said Laike easily. ‘But the prongs wouldn’t grip. I tried, over and over again. Each time, it slithered back down. Do not imagine it wasn’t frustrating. To climb thousands of feet, and be thwarted by the final fifty.’ A tightness entered his voice. ‘I had already found the map. I knew Belthirran existed. I knew I was on the brink of a great discovery …’ He looked up into the sky, his gaze distant, as if observing the stars. ‘It was agony—the highest suffering. And I was a proud man. Arrogant, too. When I returned, it wasn’t enough to say that I had gone as far as any man could. No: I had to have achieved the impossible. I had to have found Belthirran. So I lied.’ He breathed out, sighing deeply. ‘When I penned my false account, I thought it would be believed. After all, its description of the ascent was accurate, and persuasive. Only the later details were fictitious.’ He shook his head. ‘The reverse happened. My account of Belthirran was deemed untrue. And people thought, If that is a lie, the rest of his story must be untrue. No one believed I’d ever climbed beyond the foothills.’ He sighed. ‘It serves me right, I suppose.’

  ‘Why didn’t you show anyone this?’ said Ballas, indicating the bone map.

  ‘What?’ murmured Laike, not turning.

  ‘The map,’ said Ballas. ‘That’s proof, isn’t it?’

  ‘It would be decried as fake. They’d say I had made it myself. Strange, isn’t it, that a suspicious man can condemn the greatest wonders as false? In such people, there is a poverty of spirit. It garbs itself as many things often thought virtuous: pragmatism, reason, diligence. Yet it is none of those. It is merely the voice of a decrepit soul. When I was younger … when I climbed, I was an extraordinary man. I say so not out of arrogance—no—but from honesty. I was not exceptionally strong. Nor exceptionally sharp-minded. Rather, my uniqueness lay in something usually considered a vice: I was reckless. To scale the Garsbracks, I took risks beyond imagination. Nothing perturbed me. The part of the mind that preaches caution—the part that, in most people, cries out strongly— was mute in me. The gullies, chasms, steep-sided rocks—none of those things unnerved me. Perhaps a man can only accommodate a limited number of urges. And my most powerful urge—for glory—drove out all others. I feared less than any other man. And that was why I reached—almost—the Garsbracks’ summit.’ He shifted, slightly. ‘Tell me, Anhaga Ballas, does fear strike you easily?’

  ‘No,’ replied Ballas, truthfully.

  ‘Does it strike you at all?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  That is natural,’ replied Laike. ‘But to have come so far, it is clear that fear never debilitates you. That is a good sign, I think. What is your profession?’

  ‘I haven’t got one.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘I’ve lived as a vagrant for … for a long time.’

  ‘And before that?’

  Ballas drew a breath. ‘I was a soldier.’ The words fell strangely from his lips. His voice sounded oddly distant to himself. As if he were not speaking, but someone else— someone he half-knew, but had not encountered in many years.

  ‘Were you a good soldier?’

  ‘I fought well enough,’ shrugged the big man.

  ‘Ah—so you saw action, then?’

  Ballas licked his lips. ‘Aye. Against Cal’Briden.’

  This delighted Athreos Laike. He slapped his hand down upon the balustrade. ‘Cal’Briden: the Rebel Merchant. The Blight-Upon-Druine. The man who, with his armies, sought to wrest control of Druine from the Pilgrim Church. In this, I scent an irony.’

  ‘I didn’t fight to help the Church,’ grunted Ballas.

  ‘No?’

  ‘I fought because my wages depended on it.’

  ‘You bore no personal grudge against Cal’Briden?’

  ‘I disliked him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He was of brigand stock,’ replied Ballas uneasily. ‘He was a raider. Such men are a pestilence.’

  ‘When first Cal’Briden appeared,’ said Laike, ‘I was filled with optimism. Here was a man who would end the Church’s rule. And after that, Utopia would blossom. The Church’s cruelties and injustices would be banished. In its stead, a new society would be installed. There would be peace, poverty would vanish … I was mistaken, of course. You are right, Ballas. Cal’Briden was a wicked man. He would have governed Druine badly. Worse, perhaps, than the Masters. Some say he enjoyed cruelty. For certain, he could scarcely control his soldiers. Or rather, he was undiscriminatingly permissive: he allowed them to commit all sorts of atrocities … I understand that his death was unpleasant. His throat was slit, as if he were a pig—in his own fortress, as well.’

  ‘So they reckon. But I’m not here to speak of the past. My future concerns me—nothing else. Will you help me find Belthirran?’

  ‘I have told you,’ said Laike, ‘that such a thing is impossible. Do you reckon I’m a liar?’

  ‘Maybe you’re mistaken. Or maybe you weren’t reckless enough.’

  Laike laughed softly. ‘The present question is whether I am reckless enough now; is it not? Reckless enough to help you. After all, if I assist the sinner, I will make myself unpopular with the Church. Like you, I will face death.’ He took a drink of wine. ‘I must think upon this matter. If you wish, you may spend the night here. You will be fed. And Beirun will fill a bath for you. You desperately need a wash—you stink like a pig, my friend. If the Wardens wish to catch you, they need merely follow their noses.’

  ‘Can I trust you?’ asked Ballas flatly. ‘What is to say you won’t summon the Wardens?’

  ‘If I wished to,’ said Laike, ‘they would be here by now.’

  There was logic in the explorer’s words.

  ‘Enjoy a little ease,’ said Laike. ‘The past weeks must have been unpleasant for you. And, yes—you may take the wine. Finish it off. If you want more, ask Beirun and it will be brought.’

  The servant took Ballas to a bathing chamber. A deep rectangular bath was set in the middle of the floor. It was full to the brim. Rose petals floated upon the surface, patches of pink amid the pale upswirls of steam.

  ‘Athreos Laike accepts few guests,’ explained the servant. ‘But when he does, he treats them well.’

  ‘Better,’ said Ballas, ‘than he does himself.’

  ‘My master prefers a simple existence,’ replied the servant. He rarely uses this chamber. When he does, the water is always cold spring-water, brought fresh from the mountains.’

  ‘Your master is perverse,’ grunted Ballas.

  ‘He is unusual, I grant you.’

  ‘To have such wealth—’

  ‘And favour asceticism?’ The servant smiled. ‘Forgive me. But I have heard such arguments often before. You must understand: my master’s life has been built largely upon self-discipline. He treats himself harshly. But it is a harshness that gratifies him. And it has good consequences. How old would you say he was?’

  ‘Difficult to tell,’ said Ballas. ‘He didn’t show me his face.’ He paused, frowning. ‘I’m being hunted by the Church. Everyone in Druine is entitled to kill me. Yet he didn’t even turn and look at me. Wasn’t he curious?’

  The servant put a towel at the bath’s edge. ‘I am certain he has his reasons. My master never acts without purpose. As for his age: he is in his seventieth year. Yet he is as strong, as nimble, as an adolescent.’

  ‘He isn’t present,’ said Ballas. ‘You needn’t flatter him.’

  ‘Oh, but it is the truth. Perhaps you will find it hard to appreciate, but if you live cleanly, your body’s natural decay will be greatly slowed.’

  Pulling off his shirt, Ballas glanced at his ale gut. It drooped over his belt—though it wasn’t as pronounced as it had been several months ago … before the Church began pursuing him. He tossed his shirt on to the bathside. Then he lowered his breeches. ‘Bring me more wine,’ he said, stepping out of the garment. He drained the flagon of Masharrian red. ‘This one’s dead.’

  ‘As you wish,’ said th
e servant, leaving the bathing-chamber.

  Ballas lowered himself into the pool. He slid slowly, luxuriously, into the hot water. It was the most pleasant sensation he’d had for years. Closing his eyes, he felt steam ghosting against his face.

  ‘Laike,’ he murmured, ‘you’re an arse. What man would trade this for freezing spring-water?’

  He ducked his head below the surface. Surfacing, he rubbed his face. Then he sagged back against the side of the bath.

  After a while, the servant returned.

  ‘Masharrian red,’ he said, setting a flagon on the edge of the bath. ‘You appeared to enjoy the last one.’

  ‘It will do,’ said Ballas, taking the vessel. He swigged a generous mouthful.

  ‘My master says he will help you.’

  Ballas looked up.

  ‘He has agreed to assist you in finding Belthirran,’ the servant elaborated. ‘All will be explained tomorrow. In the meantime, relax. Once you have bathed, go to the banqueting hall. Food will be waiting.’

  Ballas remained in the bath a long time. He tried to recall the last time he’d bathed in hot water. As a vagrant, he had washed—when he had washed at all—in rivers, streams, puddles. He was unaccustomed to such luxury. Such comfort. And it pleased him. Even the floating rose petals—though an effeminate, foppish touch—were gratifying in their way.

  He left the bathing chamber only when the second flagon of Masharrian red was empty.

  He found Heresh in the banqueting hall. She was seated alone at a long oaken table. Before her rested a plate of potatoes, venison and vegetables, soaked in rich gravy.

  Warm, comfortable, Ballas grinned. ‘This is the way to live, eh? Far better than hunkering out on the moors.’ A place had been set for the big man. A platter of cold meats was laid out. He sat down. ‘I doubt whether Belthirran could match this place.’

  ‘The servant says you intrigue Laike. He thinks he sees a little of himself in you.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Ballas. ‘He takes cold baths. He scarcely touches his wine. I dare say he eats little except vegetables. He’s more like a priest I once knew …’