by Tom Stacey
“What is your name, boy?” her voice was that of a young woman but it carried a power of command entirely alien in this rustic setting.
“Tollett,” came the response, little more than a whimper.
“I suggest you let her go,” said the woman. “This is Esha,” she quickly flashed the knife in front of his eyes and then placed it back at his jugular, “and she hasn’t tasted blood in a very long time.”
The boy took her meaning and released Hana without protest. She ran crying back to her father’s meaty arms. Hari kissed the top of her head and looked back up at the young woman with the knife named Esha. She was tall for a woman and slim, and wore a long cloak of dark blue with the hood up, as well as tight, form-fitting leggings in the fashion of man. She was dressed for travelling, with a fur vest over a woollen tunic and high knee-length riding boots of cracked and worn leather.
“I wasn’t going to do anything,” said the boy-soldier called Tollett. His two companions were still in their seats, though the youngest with the bloody mouth was slumped down, snoring softly and dribbling blood on to his already soiled tunic. “We were just having a laugh, weren’t we lads?” He tried to turn his head to look at his friends, but Esha pricked into the goose-bumped skin of his neck, and a ruby droplet of blood showed bright there.
“We weren’t doing anything,” said the second soldier. “It was you.” He held his hands up to show he meant no harm.
“Nice friends you have,” said the woman.
Tollett swallowed and his flesh swelled against the blade at his throat.
“Now, if I’m to let you go,” said the woman, “you must first promise me that this was all a misunderstanding. That you will sit down and drink your pissy ale—”
“It’s good ale,” said Hari indignantly, annoyed at losing his chance to break Tollett’s head.
“No, old man, it is piss. He was right about that.” She continued. “You will sit down and say no more. Then you will leave, but not before you have suitably compensated this man,” she pointed at Hari, “for his time, his hospitality, and the grief you have caused him. Are we agreed?” she asked sweetly.
Tollett nodded and she released him, tucking Esha back into a sheath hidden in her sleeve. Tollett sat down on legs that seemed suddenly nerveless, and stared into the jug of ale, all pretence of violence stripped away to show the scared child in armour underneath. The young woman leant over him and plucked his coin purse from the table, drawing out two silver finns and a handful of copper dussets. She palmed one of the silver coins but gave the remaining finn and all of the dussets to Hari.
“Thank you,” he said gruffly, looking into her brown eyes. The scarf that covered the lower half of her face was dark red, but it could not hide her beauty, nor could the hood she wore stop a few curls of woven gold from poking out. A Kaleni, he thought. Do they make them as fair anywhere else? “I don’t have anything to give you, short of food and drink and a bed for the night. Well, as long as you want. We don’t get many guests here.”
She smiled and it was a genuine smile that made her eyes dance. “I’ll take the bed. It’s been too long since I had one to myself.”
Hari fought to keep his expression neutral. Was she a whore? Beds were hard to come by and many waystations had a policy of bed-sharing, but the way she had said it... Control yourself, he thought. It is none of your business, and she has just saved your daughter.
He thought of Micah. The old drunk had been in the tavern’s only fully furnished room for over two weeks. It was time to kick him out anyway, but now he had an excuse. Micah would forgive him. He had to. This was the only place to get ale for miles.
Hari stroked Hana’s hair and spoke warmly to the young woman with the hidden face. “Do you have a name?”
“Of course, who doesn’t have a name?”
Hari frowned and a bloom of pale red spilled past the woman’s scarf so that it seemed the dye was running on to her cheeks. Hari suddenly realised how young she really was — as young as Hana maybe.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “That wasn’t necessary.” She looked at Hana and reached out to lift the girl’s head. “My name is Riella and I too used to be afraid.” Hana blinked at the confident young woman who had rescued her. “Men rule us by fear. I learned to conquer it with Esha.” She pulled the blade from her sleeve and twirled it around artfully. “Men like him,” she turned to look briefly at Tollett, who sat cowed and miserable and quiet, “will try to use their strength to beat and break you. But Esha does not break. She cuts and bites deep enough to make them stop.” Riella stopped twirling the knife and held it out by the blade. Hana gasped and looked at her father. Hari realised she was asking for permission. He nodded.
Hana reached out and took hold of the simple wooden hilt, holding the knife up to the meagre light that rippled from the few candles scattered here and there.
“Next time someone like him tries something, let him meet Esha.” Riella’s eyes sparkled with mischief but there was something else there too, and it looked all too much like pain — something Hari knew well. His skin suddenly felt hot.
“Go put it somewhere safe,” he snapped.
“No,” said Riella, too sharply. “It must never leave her side. Esha is a gift that will not be forgotten.” She winked at Hana who giggled and broke from her father’s grip to disappear up the stairs in the back. Riella cast her gaze back to Hari and her eyes were wary. He didn’t like the easy way she had overridden his authority, but she had prevented bloodshed — he glanced at the thin scratch on the miserable boy-soldier’s neck. He owed her his thanks. For a while, at least.
“Go sit down,” he gestured at the corner seat she had occupied. “I will bring you some food and… and some water.” If his ale was that bad, she could go without. “Hana!” he cried up he stairs. “Water and bread and cheese for our lady friend.” Hana appeared almost immediately, as if she had been waiting for her father to remember his manners. She carried a wooden board with black bread and strong orange cheese — their finest, he noted — from the headlands of Pleippo. Hari watched as the girl led Riella to her seat, fussing over her and casting hateful looks at the young soldier and his friends.
I should say something, thought Hari. Riella had successfully emasculated the boisterous soldiers, but this was his home and he was the host. He would be weakened if he did not speak his part. He made to move forward and then stopped as the flimsy leather-wrapped door flew open to reveal another young soldier, in armour that had been clumsily stained crimson. This one seemed the youngest yet, and his face was frozen in a look of sheer horror.
“Dustan,” said Tollett, half-standing and trying to resume his place of authority. “You were supposed to stay outside.”
The young man called Dustan stammered and stuttered and then started again. “The masked man! He’s back!”
Tollett and his erstwhile follower stood, whilst the third soldier tried but fell backwards instead, landing on his back and splintering the wooden chair beneath him. “Back?” asked Tollett. “With the others?”
“N-no,” said Dustan. “I don’t think so. He was alone when I saw him.” Dustan took a deep breath. It looked as if he had been running a footrace. “He’s coming here.”
Hari watched as the redness of embarrassment faded from Tollett’s face to be replaced with pallid unease. The young man’s fists clenched and unclenched as he thought what to do. “You’re sure it’s him?”
“Of course. He had the mask and…” Dustan paused. “He’s so big!”
“Big?” the soldier next to Tollett frowned. “You mean tall?”
“Tall, big, whatever. He’s coming!” Dustan shifted his weight between his feet, looking like a restless child.
“Decision time, dremani,” sneered Hari, pumping venom into the last word. He had no idea who this masked man was, but the thought made him uncomfortable all the same. These men had been with a larger group who had rested in the village for one night a few days before. Their officer had
wisely kept them away from the tavern, before heading off into the mountains. Though he mocked the boy-soldier and his hapless cronies, the soldier in him sympathised with their predicament. They had been left behind, doubtless considered a hindrance by their officer. Maybe they were too young, or not experienced enough. The one called Tollett had clearly been left in charge, but it was due to his age rather than his rank — he didn’t seem to have any kind of badge or insignia to mark him as anything more than just another conscript.
“Take Frimal outside, round the back,” said Tollett, glancing nervously around the small tavern for an escape that wasn’t there.
“What for?” asked Dustan.
“What do you think? He needs to be out of sight. Make him throw up if you can.”
“How?” asked Dustan.
“I don’t know!” Tollett shouted and the redness returned to his face. “Punch him in the belly, dunk him in some water — I don’t care. Just get him out of here!”
Dustan scrambled to obey and heaved the dribbling mess that was Frimal out into the snow. Tollett sat down heavily and fought to control his breathing. He looked about him helplessly, then began to frantically clear the piles of plates and half-filled tankards that littered the table. His companion sat stock still, afraid to even turn lest he be forced to see what came through the open door.
Hari looked over at Riella, who simply shrugged and tucked into her bread and cheese. Hari waved Hana back to the bar and motioned for her to go upstairs. “Wake Micah and tell him to move. He can sit down here for a bit if he wants, then he needs to go elsewhere.”
Hana nodded. “What about…?” She angled her head towards the frightened soldiers.
“I’ll deal with them, girl. Now go.”
Hana turned and hurried upstairs. Hari began to move towards Tollett and his friend. “Listen here, boy. You’ve caused me strife enough for one day. It is by luck alone that you still have the strength to draw breath in my tavern, and if you are about to bring more trouble, I’ll not have it here.”
Tollett looked up and Hari could see the vein throbbing where his hairline, slick with sweat, met his forehead. “Please, we won’t stay. We just need to meet this man.”
“Who?” asked Hari impatiently.
“I don’t know. He was supposed to guide us but he never spoke to us. He went with the others.”
“What was he guiding you to?” asked Hari.
“I’m not allowed to say,” said Tollett, looking down again at the table.
“Then you can’t stay,” said Hari coldly, folding his arms.
Yet Tollett did not need to say anything, for suddenly a shadow blocked the glare from the door, and the shadow wore a mask.
IX
No one stopped them. Black thralls enjoyed a unique power in Daegermund: the power of fear. They were the keepers of the secrets, the servants of the Unnamed, and their strength lay in their mystery. Nobody knew what they did in the shadowed halls of a Temple Deep. Some thought they spoke to the Black God himself, others that they summoned demons and spirits from Hel and spun wicked spells with them. Still more thought they were practitioners of human sacrifice, stealing away the wastrels and urchins from the streets of the city and cutting out their hearts for their dark god to feast upon. Whatever people thought, a black thrall was not somebody you spoke to, nor even looked at if you could help it.
They threw a sack of rough cloth over Callistan’s head and grabbed his arms with fingers of steel, then marched him from the square through a crowd of silent onlookers. The sack robbed him of his sight but he could still make out light and dark by what little made it between the threads. It scratched his skin, but it was dry and smelt clean. It was the only clean thing he wore.
After a few minutes, they made it out of the press of people in the square and into the relative peace of Temple’s back alleys. These streets were mostly empty; most of the tired populace had been drawn to the events in the square like flies to dung.
One of the men carrying Callistan cursed as his foot tangled with the man in front. It was an odd loss of poise for someone who had quieted a riotous mob, and Callistan’s fears dissolved into thoughtful suspicion. “Who are you?” he asked, keeping his voice as calm and as level as he could, and remaining limp to show that he had no intention of trying to escape. The small group marched on, ignoring Callistan’s question, and he began to grow angry. “Where are you taking me?”
A thick hand cuffed him round the ear, and there was a brief flurry of conversation between his captors. It was spoken in a series of harsh whispers, so Callistan could not make out what they were saying, but it did not stop him from listening. After a while, Callistan grew tired of trying to talk to the thralls and so bit his tongue. His energies were better spent on achieving a solution to this mess. Still, it was difficult to plan an escape without knowing where you were, where you were going, or who had taken you prisoner. You barely know who you are, thought Callistan, and he laughed.
“Quiet,” growled a rough voice — the first time his captors had spoken to him since they left the square. Callistan obeyed but underneath the sack on his head he was grinning, for he recognised that voice and it did not belong to a temple thrall.
“Was it you that hit me, Crayne?” asked Callistan sweetly. The group stopped immediately with a scuff of booted feet on stone. Callistan exploded into action, ripping himself clear of the men holding him, whose grips had been slackened by shock. “Enough!” he shouted, spreading his hands out from his body with palms facing downwards to show he meant no harm. He drew in a breath, his lungs empty from the excitement, and realised that they were not going to attack him. He reached up to pull the sack from his head.
“No!” cried another voice. Several strong hands gripped Callistan by his filthy clothes and dragged him into darkness. He fought, but they managed to pin his arms at his sides, so he screamed bloody murder instead. There was the crash of splintering wood awfully close, and he thought that they had broken something so that they could beat him over the head with it. He screamed twice as loud, desperate to attract even the dubious help of a citizen of Temple, but a hand was clapped over his mouth. He was pulled backwards and slammed down into a hard wooden chair, where he cursed and struggled to no avail. Finally, he ran out of breath and so calmed himself, waiting for his flagging strength to return.
Then something strange happened. The hands holding him released him and there was silence, broken only by his own ragged breathing and a distant muttering. Callistan began to get the uncomfortable feeling that he was entirely alone. Slowly he reached up to the sack that covered his face, wary of another attack. When it did not come, he gripped the edge of the fabric and tugged it off.
He was not alone. There were eight men in the room, all disguised as temple thralls but showing tell-tale splashes of colour at the neck from the tunics they wore underneath. Two of them stood a short distance away, their hoods thrown back and their faces drawn and wary, whilst the others stood further back in heated conversation punctuated with expansive gestures.
They had brought him to a small courtyard, kicking in the flimsy door and risking the ire of the owner to escape the notice of the street. But there was no owner, for as Callistan looked about him, he could see that the courtyard had been abandoned for some years. It had probably been pretty once, and peaceful, built by somebody of modest wealth to mimic the summer homes of the powerful. The thick wooden beams that fringed the open space where Callistan sat would have been bright and gaily painted. Now they were mostly rotten and covered with a thick green-brown moss. A filthy square of faded orange tarpaulin had been strung between two high balconies to provide some protection from the summer sun, but excessive rain had torn a great rent in the fabric, leaving a corner flapping lazily in what little breeze reached down this far. The tarpaulin had probably been chosen so that the light shining through it would bathe the lesser dignitaries and minor merchants gathering in the courtyard in a warm brilliance. However the jealousy of the
sun had bleached it of any warmth and now the disguised thralls stood in the pallid afterglow.
Callistan stood quickly and immediately regretted it as his strength abandoned him. He gritted his teeth, and though he wobbled a bit, took a step forward. He could give them the appearance of strength, at least. The two men watching him shifted uncomfortably, yet they did nothing as he took a few more steps towards them. His feet were bruised and sore, but the flagstones felt cool and the weeds sprouting from the cracks between the paving brushed his legs like the hands of a lover.
Abruptly the six men in front of him seemed to finish their discussion, and a tall, thin man turned to face him, pulling off his hood to show himself.
It was Hapal.
“My Lord Callistan. We feared we would be too late. Too late,” he said.
Callistan sucked in a great lungful of air, threw his head back to the sky, and laughed.
“I’m sorry for hitting you, milord, but I thought somebody would hear, then it all would have been for naught.” Crayne stood before Callistan, twisting his robe in his hands like a scolded child.
Callistan, bent over a bucket, splashed a double handful of cold water on to his face, blinking the droplets from his eyes and scrubbing the filth from his body with a coarse cloth. He nodded. “I understand, Crayne, but I can’t say I approve. You hit like a horse falling downhill.” Callistan rubbed the back of his head to prove his point.
Crayne grinned. “Aye, milord. Thank you.” He scuttled off, waved away by the impatient Hapal who drew his robe up from around his skinny legs and squatted down next to Callistan.
