Songs of the Dark

by Anthony Ryan

  “Yes, but one never to be repeated if I have any say in the matter. I happen to know a wine seller with an establishment close to the docks. He’s been promising me something special for some time now. You’re welcome to join me.”

  “Sadly I must decline, my lord. I have a report to make.” She turned her gaze to the dim bulk of the Margentis, hearing the faint overlapping splashes of many bodies being consigned to the water. With one more to come. “And then,” she added in a whisper, “there’s a spice merchant with whom I am keen to renew my acquaintance.”

  “Another time then.”

  Derla and Mustor shared a faint smile as they sat in the boat. She wasn’t sure if this was the ending or the beginning of something. It seemed entirely possible that Alveric might one day hand her a note ordering this man’s death. More likely, he’ll hand someone else a note ordering mine. The notion stirred a flutter of fear in her breast, a fear she found herself holding to with sudden fierceness. She fed it with the horrors she had witnessed, this night and before, the sight of Livera’s bleached, vacant face and the empty eyes of the man who had killed her. The fear blossomed, burning with a heat that banished her guilt and brought a laugh to her lips.

  So I didn’t die after all, she thought. You have to be alive to know fear.

  * * *

  End

  Author’s Note

  Sollis returns! In fact, for me he returned in Many Are the Dead since I wrote The Lord Collector three years before. However, The Lord Collector is placed last in this collection because, along with The Lady of Crows, it falls within the timeline of Blood Song. For those who like to nit-pick such things, Sollis’s sojourn to the south-Asraelin coast takes place about four years subsequent to the narrative described in The Lady of Crows and shortly after Vaelin’s Test of the Sword in Blood Song, the event which marks the beginning of a prolonged estrangement. This novella also gave me the chance to explore a character who had a bit-part in Tower Lord and a slightly expanded role in Queen of Fire, namely Jehrid Al Bera, Tower Lord of the Southern Shore. Although never a major character, I had peppered his story with a few details that made him a fellow with an interesting backstory, one I didn’t know at the time but wanted to find out later. The main source of inspiration for the setting derives from 16-17th century Britain when excise duties were high and smuggling rife. This was particularly true on the southern coast where customs officials regularly fought deadly skirmishes with ruthless, heavily armed gangs who were not above luring ships onto the rocks to harvest their cargo. It’s a period most famously evoked in Daphne du Maurier’s Jamaica Inn and the poem A Smuggler’s Song by Rudyard Kipling:

  * * *

  Five and twenty ponies,

  Trotting through the dark -

  Brandy for the Parson, 'Baccy for the Clerk.

  Them that asks no questions isn't told a lie -

  Watch the wall my darling while the Gentlemen go by!

  The Lord Collector

  - A Raven’s Shadow Novella -

  “Where are they Varesh?”

  Varesh Baldir was a tall man, somewhere past his fortieth year, thickset with a copious unkempt beard that partly concealed the weathered features common to those who eked a a living from the shore. His heavy brows furrowed as he stared at Jehrid, eyes lit mostly with hate and fury, but also betraying a momentary flicker of fear.

  “We counted near two score corpses on the beach after you lured that freighter to its death,” Jehrid continued, sensing a fractional advantage. “I know the code as well as you. Blood pays for blood.”

  Varesh took a deep breath, closing his eyes and turning his face out towards the sea, hate and fear fading as his brow softened under the salted wind. After a moment he opened his eyes and turned back to Jehrid, mouth set in a hard, unyielding line, and his tattooed fists bunched, jangling the manacles on his meaty wrists.

  Silence is the only law, Jehrid thought. First rule of the smuggler’s code, drilled into him over many an unhappy year. This is a waste of time.

  He sighed and moved closer to Nawen’s Maw, an unnaturally regular bore-hole through the rocky overhang on which they stood. Varesh’s chain traced from his manacles to an iron brace set into the top of a stone resembling an upended pear, a wide rounded top narrowing to a flat base. It had been carved from the pale red sandstone that proliferated on the southern Asraelin shore and made the buildings here so distinctive. One of Jehrid’s first acts upon assuming his role had been to hire a mason to fashion the stones, insisting they be at least twice the weight of a man and shaped so as to allow them to be easily tipped into the maw. When complete, he had his men arrange them in a tidy row atop the overhang; a clear statement of intent. He had begun with twenty, now only five remained, soon to become four.

  Jehrid rested a boot on the stone, glancing down at the waves crashing on the rocks far below. The terns had already begun to gather, wings folding back as they plunged into the swell, eager for the fresh pickings below. This shore had ever been kind to scavengers. The diving birds were the only sign of the six men he had already consigned to the Maw, Varesh’s kin; : four cousins, a brother and a nephew. Last of the Stone Teeth, a brotherhood of smugglers and wreckers that had plagued this shore for more than three generations. Before kicking each boulder into the Maw Jehrid had asked Varesh the same question, and each time the leader of the Stone Teeth had stood silent and watched his kin dragged to their deaths. Varesh’s only child, a daughter of notoriously vicious temper, had fallen to a crossbow bolt when Jehrid led his company into the smuggler’s den, a narrow crack in the maze of cliffs east of South Tower, crammed with sundry spoils looted from the Alpiran freighter they had enticed onto the rocks a month before. One of Varesh’s cousins had allowed wine to loosen his tongue upon visiting a brothel in town the previous night, and Jehrid had always found whores to be excellent informants.

  “My mother once told me a story of how the Maw got its name,” he told Varesh in a reflective tone. “Would you like to hear it?”

  “Your mother was a poxed bitch,” Varesh told him, voice quivering with rage. “Who whelped a traitor.”

  “It’s not natural, you see,” Jehrid went on, his tone unchanged. “Nawen, or Na Wen to give him his correct name, was captain and only survivor of a wrecked ship from the Far West. A lonely old fishwife took him in, though he was quite mad by all accounts. Every day he would come here and chip away at the cliff with hammer and chisel. Every day for twelve years until he had carved a perfect circular hole through this overhang. And when he was done… well, I assume you can guess what he did next.”

  Jehrid stiffened his leg, tilting the stone towards the maw. “No-one knows why he did it, for who can divine the mind of a madman? But my mother was wise, and judged it an act of revenge, a desire to leave the mark of man on the shore that wrecked his ship and killed his crew.”

  He gave Varesh a final questioning glance. “Life in the King’s king’s mines isn’t much,” he said. “But it is life. I know the Stone Teeth allied with the Red Breakers to wreck that ship. Things must have come to a desperate pass to forge an alliance between hated enemies. Settle some old scores, Varesh. Tell me where their den is.”

  Varesh spat on the rocks at Jehrid’s feet and straightened his back. “If I find your mother in the Beyond…”

  Jehrid kicked the stone, sending it tumbling into the maw, the chain rattling over rock as it snapped taught. Varesh had time for only the briefest shout as he was drawn into the hole, bones cracking as he rebounded from the sides, followed by a despairing wail as he plummeted towards the crashing waves.

  “Make a note for the Royal Dispatches,” Jehrid said, turning to his Sergeant of Excise, a squat Nilsaelin recruited as much for his facility with letters as his skill with a crossbow. “Varesh Baldir, leader of the gang known as the Stone Teeth, executed this day with six of his cohorts. Execution carried out under the King’s Word by Jehrid Al Bera, Lord Collector of the King’s Excise. Append a list of the contraband we
recovered, and be sure the men know I’ll check it against stores.”

  The sergeant gave a brisk nod, wisely keeping silent. Like most of those recruited to the Lord Collector’s service, he had quickly gained an appreciation for Jehrid’s intolerance of even the most petty theft. “You are paid twice the wage of the Realm Guard for a reason,” he had told their assembled ranks the morning he flogged a former Varinshold City Guard for helping himself to a single vial of redflower. “Greed will not be tolerated.”

  “Rider coming, my lord,” another Excise Man called, pointing to the north. The rider wore the uniform of a South Guard, a youthful recruit as many were these days. The new Tower Lord had been punctilious in enforcing the King’s order that his command be purged of the lazy and corrupt, though it left him in sore need of guardsmen.

  “Tower Lord’s compliments, Lord Al Bera,” the young guardsman said, reining in and bowing low in the saddle. “He requests your presence with all urgency.”

  “Another wreck?” Jehrid asked him.

  “No, my lord.” The guardsman straightened and gave a wary smile. “We have… visitors.”

  Tower Lord Nohrin Al Modral greeted Jehrid with an affable nod as he entered the chamber, but failed to rise from his plain, high-backed chair. Although they were technically of equal rank Jehrid took no offence at the absence of an honorary greeting. He had known this man as captain and, later, Lord Marshal throughout his years in the Realm Guard and was well acquainted with his former commander’s disdain for useless ceremony. Also, Al Modral was only two years shy of seventy and his legs not so sturdy these days.

  The plainness of his chair, and the mostly bare audience chamber where he received visitors, were a stark contrast to the previous incumbent. Former Tower Lord Al Serahl had maintained a richly decorated chamber and greeted visitors perched atop a tall, throne-like chair, so tall in fact he required a ladder to ascend it. He had been a small man, narrow of face with a prominent nose, and Jehrid recalled seeing a resemblance to a suspicious parrot the day he and Lord Al Modral had walked in six months before, unannounced and bearing a warrant of arrest adorned with the King’s seal. The full company of Realm Guard at their back had discouraged any unwise intervention from those South Guard present, despite the pleas of the unfortunate Al Serahl who screamed himself quite hoarse before tumbling from his lofty perch in a tangle of robes fashioned from the finest Alpiran silks. When Jehrid led him to the gallows, his clothing had been much more modest.

  “It seems we have occasion to celebrate, Lord Collector,” the Tower Lord said, gesturing at the three figures standing before him. “The Faith sees fit to lend aid to our cause.”

  Jehrid went to one knee before the Tower Lord before rising to survey the visitors. The tallest wore a sword on his back and the dark blue cloak of the Sixth Order, returning Jehrid’s scrutiny with impassive pale eyes. His closely cropped hair was flecked with grey gray at the temples, and his features had the leanness typical of the Faith’s deadly servants. Jehrid knew him from a best forgotten foray into Lonak territory, though he entertained no illusions the brother would remember the boy-soldier who stood staring in blank amazement as he cut down three Lonak warriors in as many seconds.

  “Brother Sollis, is it not?” Jehrid greeted the pale-eyed man with a bow. Deadliest blade in the Sixth Order, he pondered as Sollis inclined his head. Come south to battle smugglers. Does the King think so poorly of our efforts he begs aid from the Order?

  “This is Brother Lucin and Sister Cresia,” Sollis said in a dry rasp, nodding at his two companions, both wearing the dun coloured robes of the Second Order. Brother Lucin was a thin, balding man somewhere past his fiftieth year. It seemed to Jehrid that his apparently serene expression was somewhat forced, his features tensed as if holding a mask in place. Sister Cresia seemed to be little more than sixteen years old, honey blonde hair tied back from youthful features, her slight form concealed within robes worn with evident discomfort. Unlike Lucin, she felt no need for a false air of serenity, returning Jehrid’s gaze with a barely suppressed scowl.

  Second Order, Jehrid mused inwardly. What use have we for missionaries here?

  “Our visitors come on a special errand, Lord Al Bera,” the Tower Lord went on. “Regarding the Alpiran vessel wrecked last month. I was explaining you had the matter well in hand. You have finished with the Stone Teeth, have you not?”

  “As of this morning, my lord,” Jehrid replied. “Though the Red Breakers remain elusive. Perhaps another week of investigation will root them out. My agents are busy, promise of rich reward always stirs them to greater efforts.”

  “A week is too long,” Brother Sollis stated. “With luck, our assistance will assuage any delays.”

  “The help of the Sixth Order is always welcome, brother,” Jehrid replied before casting a pointed glance at the two missionaries. “However, I confess myself at a loss as to the aid offered by your companions. No offensce, good brother and sister, but the hearts of the Red Breakers will not open to the Faith, regardless of how many catechisms you cast at their ears.”

  Sister Cresia’s half-scowl twisted into a smirk, her voice betraying a faint note of contempt as she looked down, muttering, “Got more than catechisms to throw at them.”

  Brother Lucin gave her a sharp glance, saying nothing, but the severity of his gaze was sufficient to make her lower her head further, sullenness replacing contempt. “My apologies, my lord,” Lucin said to Jehrid. “My pupil is barely a week into her first foray beyond the walls of our house and knows little of the world, or, it seems, common courtesy.” He glared again at Cresia who kept her head lowered, though Jehrid saw her hands were now clasped tight together, quivering a little.

  This girl’s no more a missionary than I am, Jehrid thought. What do they want here?

  “The ranks of my Order are filled with varied talents,” Brother Lucin went on. “The missions test our bodies as well as our Faith. I myself was a hunter before I felt the call to don these robes.”

  No you weren’t, Jehrid surmised from the briefest glance at the brother’s spindly arms and lined but unweathered features. I doubt you spend one more minute out of doors than you have to. However, he merely nodded as the brother continued, “Sometimes my brothers in the Sixth have occasion to call on my tracking skills, when their own talents are otherwise occupied.”

  “We need to see the wreck,” Sollis said.

  “There’ll barely be anything left,” Jehrid told him. “A month of tides will have cleansed the shore of timber, and the sands of tracks.”

  “Even so,” Sollis said, meeting his gaze, pale eyes unblinking.

  Jehrid had been a soldier for twenty of his thirty-three years. He had fought Lonak, outlaws, heretics and, though he preferred not the dwell on it, Meldeneans, and knew himself to be the equal or superior of most men he was likely to meet in combat. But this one was different, for he had never forgotten seeing him fight. Nevertheless, he had ever been a slave to his temper and resentful of those who sought to stir fear in his breast, a long dulled sensation, summoning ugly boyhood memories, and unwise notions.

  “May I ask,” he grated, turning to face Sollis squarely, “what interest you have in this particular wreck?”

  Sollis angled his head slightly, expression unchanged apart from a narrowing of his eyes. Jehrid felt his temper quicken yet further at the knowledge of being assessed and, no doubt, found wanting. Fortunately, the Tower Lord intervened before he could give voice to any anger.

  “It seems there was a passenger aboard,” Lord Al Modral groaned, levering himself out of his chair with difficulty, hand trembling on the heavy staff he was obliged to carry these days. Jehrid knew better than to offer assistance, the old man retained a surfeit of pride and had a temper of his own. “A passenger of some importance, eh brother?”

  “Quite so, my lord,” Sollis replied, blinking before switching his gaze to the Tower Lord. “One King Janus is keen to recover.”

  “Every soul on that ship
perished on the rocks or drowned in the surf,” Jehrid said. “The Alpiran merchants in town saw to the bodies and did what they could to glean names from their belongings.”

  “The passenger we seek was not among them,” Lucin stated in an emphatic tone Jehrid found near as aggravating as Sollis’s appraising gaze.

  “They’re all dead,” Jehrid repeated. “You come here on a fool’s errand…”

  Lord Al Modral’s heavy staff thumped onto the flagstones. The old man’s legs might be failing but his arm remained strong. The echo birthed by his staff resounded through the chamber for some seconds before he spoke again, “Brothers, and sister, the Lord Collector will be more than happy to escort you to the wreck and render any and all assistance required. Please leave us whilst we discuss other matters.”

  After the trio had made their exit the Tower Lord moved to the stained glass window set into the chamber’s south facing wall. The window was the only vestige of the deposed Lord Al Serahl’s love of expensive ornamentation, conceived to celebrate a battle, and an atrocity, he had taken no direct part in. It was a floor-to-ceiling wonder of expert craftsmanship, lead and glass of various hues rendered into an ascending narrative. At the bottom many ships sailed from a harbour, marked as South Tower by the lance-like structure rising above the docks. The middle panes depicted a vicious sea battle that failed to conform to Jehrid’s memory. Most of the Meldenean fleet had been absent that day and the pirates hadn’t been able to muster even a third of the ships ascribed to them here. Unlike the sea battle, the window’s upper panes were entirely in keeping with Jehrid’s memory: a city… burning. The late afternoon sun was clear of cloud today and painted the scene across the chamber floor in vivid detail, leaving Jehrid unable to escape its dreadful spectacle, and the memories it provoked.