by Scott Taylor
“To work. I know.” The sooner it was done, he told himself, the sooner the creature would let him return home. The stonemason stripped off his jerkin and took up his chisel and hammer, only then checking to see where to start. Zotz knew where the voices were loudest and would insist he open the stone there first.
Her small fingers stroked the figures along the lower row, the ones shown in torment.
He hesitated. The voices came from the stones. Yes, there’d been a time when their whispered almost-words and distant screams had made him break into a cold sweat, when it had been a matter of pride to stand and work, to do what he could to bring peace to a wall or building. To make Taux a better place for the living.
But now he pitied the dead and grieved when they fell silent. Zotz stole something from them, something precious. He no longer doubted it. To rob those already condemned…
A crooked finger tapped impatiently.
Ghanan sank to his haunches before the wall. He made the mistake of glancing at the creature. Her eyes were hollow pits and her mouth gaped, the tongue lolling like a dog’s. Instead of honest spit, something black and loathsome dribbled from the corners of her child’s lips. She pointed again, with unfamiliar urgency.
There was something here, he realized abruptly. Something she’d been looking for and finally found.
It wouldn’t be anything good.
Ghanan fought to resist the creature’s will. Drop the chisel, he begged his fingers. Just that, or cry out and draw the Sturgeons down to investigate.
Sweat poured into his eyes and stung, but his fingers stayed locked to the tool, fitting it to the heart of a small tortured shape. His lips moved, but nothing came out as his other hand lifted the hammer.
Voices wailed and gibbered in terror. The torches guttered as the hammer fell and the first figure split open, spilling tiny organs and blood.
Zotz shoved him aside, eager to feast.
If Taux’s builders had intended the Black Gate to overawe those entering their great stadium, they’d succeeded. The massive obsidian gate stood before its bridge to the city as it always had, its ferocious carved visages glaring out in threat. The Ullamalitzli Stadium beyond it, however, had become something else: a city within a city. Every scrap of its defensible, blissfully quiet stone had been squatted on, settled, and, in some cases, rebuilt entirely by those who came after. What had been broad bleachers now supported rows of wooden tenements, answering to the fate of the city’s docks. The once-magnificent Raised Celebration platform, girded by the gate and its twin guard towers, was home to the ramshackle booths and colourful awnings of the Raised Market, a disorderly mass that had spilled out across what had been a sunken practice court and now reached greedily for the precious space of the main Tournament Field.
On the other side of the field, where the rich and mighty had sat in three-storey stone boxes at the centre of the stadium, the Emerald Serpent and Silk Purse nestled back-to-back, like guilty lovers unable to face one another by day. Beyond those dens of profitable iniquity was, by no accident, a practice court that echoed with the ring of swordplay, being used by athletes of every ilk, including assassins.
The former Royal Raised Gardens remained beyond at the rear for the great stadium, but its beds now grew fruits and vegetables, and to either side stood the Wizards’ Gifts, inexhaustible fountains of sweet water. Furthest from the gate and presumed safest, was the area claimed by the second class nobility – though some would argue buying a title or being a crime lord didn’t count – of those who called the Black Gate home.
Hunhau’s little shop sat much closer to the gate, tucked in a blind corner on the lowermost floor of a building on the first bleacher. It wasn’t much, but possessed something rare: privacy. The shop’s door opened to the outside and a shared courtyard, with no inner neighbours using it for a corridor.
It was too much to hope they were unobserved. Windows and balconies overlooked the courtyard, and the Black Gate’s inhabitants were insatiably curious. Hunhau tried not to glance up as he helped Cenoté into the litter, but he couldn’t help it. In the distance the Star Tower rose beyond the stadium walls. Did Wizards watch?
Did the traitor?
They left the litter at the edge of the market. He gave the bearers coin for a meal and extra for a drink or two, having imposed on them to wait yet again. The men were cheerful. Hunhau wasn’t.
Anything could be had, for a price, in the Raised Market. Its overlapping awnings and flags made a chaotic display that would shrink like magic the night before a game, replaced, of course, by seats and benches of varying luxury and price, as well as refreshment dealers and those waiting to take bets. Today, though, the usual uproar of yells, chants, yips, chimes, and bells – among less identifiable noises – bounced from wall to wall, making it unlikely any single one could be heard, let alone attract a customer.
Then there was the smell. Hunhau loathed coming here, even in his mask, all too easily imagining the reek. But here he was, in the thick of it.
“A large tent beside a snake merchant,” Cenoté whispered. “Near the Tournament Field.” She rested her hand on his shoulder, having left her cane behind, and he felt that responsibility keenly as he guided them through the jostling crowd. They’d passed three stalls with snakes hissing in their baskets already.
Hunhau slapped at a pickpocket’s hand, receiving an unrepentant grin as the waif ducked away. “Are you sure we should…” he began, then looked past the would-be thief. “I think I found it.”
No ordinary booth this. The thick poles holding up the awning were carved into twisting serpents with jade eyes and a carpet done to look like silver scales beckoned customers through velvet curtains. Only the wealthy need enter, they said.
“And the tent, Hunhau?”
As tents went, the dull brown one leaning next to the snake merchant’s fine establishment looked more suited to covering a dung heap. A very large dung heap. Hunhau looked for another, but saw only more booths with awnings. And people. Half of Taux was here, and not the better half either. Criers ran through, some waving staffs with flags, others tossing samples and causing fights. Forced aside by a grim pair of Jai-Ruk, the maskmaker lost his courage and simply kept moving, leading Cenoté to the open space beside one of the snake poles. “I see it,” he admitted glumly.
“What’s wrong?” She’d unbound her remarkable hair, though it remained beneath the hood of her silk cloak. Her face…
Once she’d pressed the mask to her face, it had become her face. The real and created had merged, blurring one into the other. No scars remained, but the blue eyes were hazed over and milky. Stern lines had drawn themselves at the corners of the mouth, taking away the half-seen dimple he loved.
“Everything,” he fussed. “Who sent us here? How do we know this isn’t a trap?”
An eyebrow, once wood and paint, lifted. “It may be,” Cenoté agreed easily and Hunhau’s heart sank. “Nothing’s changed. The eater is here and must be fought.”
“Here?” A less likely spot for a magical confrontation couldn’t be imagined.
“The tent,” she reminded him.
Hunhau sighed but argued no more.
The tent’s entry was tied shut. From the litter on the ground before it, it hadn’t been used in days. Rather than be caught fumbling with knots or a knife – not that he’d thought to bring one – Hunhau waited for the next crier to distract the crowd, then drew Cenoté into the narrow space beside the tent, hoping to find another way.
What he found, after some too-noisy stumbles over ropes, was that the market side of the tent was a clever ruse. The real entrance faced the Tournament Field. There was a much larger door on that side, held open by rings on golden hooks. As he hesitated, Cenoté’s fingers pressed his shoulder encouragingly. Courage, that meant.
Hunhau went on hands and knees, poking his masked face around the edge of the door. The interior of the tent was a revelation. Another door opened across from him, while within, no expense
had been spared. The fabric lining was cotton, died pale gold, and woven carpets covered the floor. Jaguar masks stood on poles along the wall; masks he recognized. Those belonged to the team itself as, he guessed, would the chests beneath them. But why store them here?
What had Tohil said? That the Gamesmaster planned to house her team in rooms – rooms beneath the playing field. Moving very slowly, he turned to look the other way.
Where the front door of the tent would open was a gaping hole in the floor, flanked by guards. Big ones.
They were staring into the hole. That was all that saved him from discovery. Shaking at his luck, and their lack of it, Hunhau pulled back hastily and rose to his feet. He took Cenoté’s hand and began leading her away. She resisted.
Which was when the new, even bigger guard showed up, striding towards them.
Chip, chip, chip. The bodies were tiny – their anguish wasn’t. As Zotz sucked each dry, her thin child’s frame expanded, like some spider filling with the juice of prey.
With each desecration, the underground corridor grew darker, as if the light from the torches failed, though the flames were unchanged.
This was his fault, Ghanan told himself, half-mad with shame. He’d fallen into the creature’s trap, for he no longer believed their meeting an accident. He’d let her enthral him and this was the result. Tears streamed down his face, mingling with sweat and dust, but he could no more stop his hands than the ending of the world.
From Tohil’s smug look and wink, Plums-By-Moonlight had done more than give him Cenoté’s instructions. He’d walked right by Hunhau and into the tent, exhorting his fellow Sturgeons to their duty. A riot at The Silk Purse! The street filled with naked courtesans of both sexes –Tohil clearly knew his audience –needing rescue! Compared with make-work guarding a hole in the ground, there’d been no doubt which they’d choose. The three had run out with a clatter of weapons at the ready.
A worried Hunhau led Cenoté inside the tent. “Won’t he get in trouble?”
“There is a riot,” Cenoté said absently. “A small one.”
Another secret. Another time, he might have wondered, but not now. The closer they came to the hole, the more his fear of it grew. It was as if that opening, now revealed to be an ornate stair leading down, went to his grave.
No wonder the guards had been willing to abandon their post. If it weren’t for Cenoté’s hand, firm and steady on his shoulder, he’d have run too.
Her other hand lifted, palm up. “It’s time, my friend.”
Bracing himself, Hunhau took off his mask and secured it to his belt. His face felt naked, the skin itchy. When he could hold off no longer, he gasped out the air he’d held in his lungs, then inhaled through his nose.
“Agh!” The stench of death and rot and worse burned his nostrils. Nothing should smell like this, he wailed to himself, doubling over. Nothing could! What was down there?
“Hunhau? Are you all right?”
He waved a hand to beg a moment, eyes watering, forgetting she was blind.
“I’m so sorry. Thank you for this.” Cenoté’s fingers found his face. They stroked his nose and the stench vanished. As he straightened with astonished relief, she caught his tears on her cool fingers and touched them to her clouded eyes.
She blinked and her eyes cleared.
Hunhau blinked too. The floor had moved further away. No, he now saw from a greater height! “I see through your eyes!”
“I see through yours. Stay with me,” Cenoté ordered. Tossing her cloak to the floor, she gathered up her robe in two hands and started nimbly down the stairs, hair streaming like a waterfall over her back. “Mind your feet.”
Good advice. Unable to trust depth or distance, the maskmaker felt his way down beside her.
Cold. Cold and damp and, though he was grateful not to smell it, something inside Hunhau knew the air wasn’t right. It wasn’t right at all.
Down they went. The stairs were broad and well made, worn in the centre. What the place had been the maskmaker didn’t dare guess, but it had seen use and not a kind one. The Gamesmaster was mad to think she could house anyone or anything in here, even were the stones silenced.
“Stay close,” Cenoté whispered, taking his hand as they took the final step together.
There were torches. Why was it so dark? The corridor beyond stretched like a gaping mouth while just in front of them…
Having readied himself for a monster, Hunhau sagged with relief. “Don’t be concerned,” he assured the obviously startled stonemason, crouched with his hammer and chisel poised in midair. The plump child, doubtless his daughter, stared at Cenoté. “We’re not here to disturb you.”
“Oh, but we are.” Cenoté’s fingers tightened on his. “Look at their water, Hunhau. See them as they truly are.”
And he could, Hunhau realized. The stonemason, rising slowly, was a cresting wave, tense and constrained, yet full of colour and grace. While the child ... the child was dust and ash and every regret he’d ever felt.
It spoke, using the man’s lips. “You are blind, Wizard, and powerless.”
“You are found, soul-eater,” Cenoté said, and in her voice was a hurricane’s wrath. “And I’m not alone.” Her hand lifted from Hunhau’s, joined the other in a sweeping summons.
Water burst from the walls, rose from the floor, water that formed itself into nightmare shapes. Hands with shattered fingers reached. Legs that were stumps walked. Faces, ruined and rotted, opened what remained of their mouths to shout curses without sound. All aimed for the child.
The stonemason leapt forward, tools raised. “Stop me!” he pleaded as he splashed through the watershapes. They reformed at once, oblivious to all but their tormentor. “Stop me, please!”
Time didn’t pass as it should. The maskmaker saw every step the man took, felt, as if it were his own, the sick horror filling the poor man’s eyes.
Stepping forward, Hunhau pulled his beloved mask from his belt and smashed it over the stonemason’s head.
The thick wood cracked and split. Staggered, the man fell to his knees, pieces of mask dropping beside him.
Hunhau quickly grabbed the tools from the man’s hands and tossed them as far as he could. They disappeared within the rising flood.
“You haven’t won,” the stonemason’s mouth said. “What I’ve birthed will burrow under this city and find the Afterglow. We shall have its power!”
Water surged to lift the child and pin her against the wall, thin legs and arms at awkward angles. “‘We’, small one?” Cenoté mocked gently. “Your masters share nothing with the likes of you. If I thought you knew anything of their true intent I’d grant you safe passage from this city in return, but you are a thing shaped from lies and ill intent.”
Black ooze drooled from the child’s mouth. Her puppet’s lips twisted and spat. “And the name of he who betrayed you, Wizard? What will you grant for that? I know it, I do. I know all the dark secrets. Even yours!”
The watershapes faltered, then straightened. “By the Shining Sea, take them to Castaway Hells with you!” Cenoté stepped forward, or did she flow with the water, become one of the shapes?
The child’s mouth gaped impossibly wide and she vomited a vile black dust. Hunhau shielded his face as it struck, coughing and gasping for breath.
“See her!” Cenoté commanded.
He dropped his hands to stare at the soul-eater as it dropped all pretence.
No longer a child. No longer small. It spread itself over the stones like a foul stain, black hooked edges digging into cracks and crevices, pulling.
It wasn’t trying to escape. It scrabbled at the stone, making a dreadful sucking sound. It was feeding! Growing larger!
“This ends,” Cenoté said, ice calm, and raised both hands. The watershapes flew through the air to crash against the wall!
A wave would have receded at once, but this wasn’t a wave. Tortured hands gripped. Broken mouths chewed. Given form, the dead fought for themselves and
for Taux. The now-desperate soul-eater tried to consume them, but these had already lost their souls and could not be touched.
The stonemason wailed, then fell silent.
When at last the wave did recede, draining down through the tile floor, the black stain was gone and the wall, new and white, glittered in the torchlight.
Hunhau noticed the figurines between the stones for the first time. Little faces gazed back. Those at head-height laughed. Those above seemed to sleep. The lower rows held lovers, their limbs intertwined.
He took a cautious sniff, then a deeper one. The air was as fresh as any he’d smelled.
“Zotz…” The stonemason sat on the floor, his eyes dazed. Not, Hunhau thought, from the blow. “Is she gone?”
“This one, yes,” Cenoté said disconcertingly. “The prize is too great. They will make more. They will try again. Whoever they are.”
Hearing the weariness in her voice, Hunhau turned. With one hand, she held a mask of crude wood over her face, its colours run into lines and splotches of black, blue, and grey. As he watched, the floor beneath her dried; slender toes peeked from under her hem. “You’re free,” she told the man. “Hunhau?”
The maskmaker helped the stonemason to his feet. “Sorry…”
“For this?” The man touched his head. “I thank you for it.” He had a strong and pleasant face, now that the horror had left it. “My name’s Ghanan. I’m forever in your debt, good lady.” He gave the wall a look of wonder. “I believe I’m not the only one.”
“Speak not of debt, Ghanan. You fought her will all this time. That kept her small. That gave us this chance.”
Hunhau could hear the dimple. Collecting Cenoté’s hand, he led it to his shoulder. “It’s time we left. I don’t think the riot will last much longer.”
Ghanan chuckled, a warm rich sound unlikely to have been heard in this place before. “I don’t think I’ll ask.” He nodded at the stairs. “Shall we? I need to see my wife.” He made no move to collect his tools.
For some reason, perhaps the same one, Hunhau didn’t want the pieces of his mask. He tapped the side of his great nose instead. “I’ll lead the way.”
