THE WAYS OF KHREM
BY D. NATHAN HILLIARD
I would like to dedicate this book to my trusted circle of proofreaders and friends;
Cherri Galbiati, who knows what works and what doesn’t.
Claire (Charlie) Paul, who finds the logic bombs and the inevitable word I overuse in any given story.
Stephanie Hilliard, who helps keep my syntax to at least a semi-adult level.
April Rood and Santanita Mirabal for their help in re-editing and adding that final layer of polish.
And finally, my talented and ever so patient wife, Karla, who supported me on this flight of fancy and made this book possible.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Prologue
Part One: The Reach of Talanturos
Part Two: The Cistern
Part Three: The Ghost of Candlewalk Lane
Prologue
“The deeds we commit shape us as much as we shape them. They are the progeny of our thoughts and intent, and once manifested they create the reality to which we react. No man may ever truly flee his deeds, for they are as much a part of him as the hands he used to carry them out.”—Chapter Six, Verse Twelve of The Book of Eddos.
Eight Years Earlier
With a cry of strain and fatigue, I pulled myself out of Hell and into the murky basement of Gurode’s Bakery.
“Never again,” I rasped, my gasps muffled in the dusty cellar, “Never, ever again.”
Thankfully, the bakery would not be firing up their ovens for another hour, so I still had the place to myself.
Not that it mattered.
A strategic bribe insured Gurode would look the other way in case I ever suddenly appeared, coming up from his basement.
Dropping my package, I turned and sealed the means of my escape.
My gore-smeared hands trembled as they fit the bricks back into the hole in the basement wall. The sleeve of my tunic still dripped with venom, and my clothes were covered with ichor from cutting myself free of the horror I left back down there. My breathing was labored, due to equal parts exhaustion and suppressed hysterics, and I tried to calm myself by concentrating on fitting the bricks back correctly.
When the last one slid into place, the illusion of a dank, unbroken wall was complete…
…but that was also when the illusion of my solitude vanished.
“Mr. Chance, you certainly appear to be worse for the wear.”
I whirled and went for my knife as a figure emerged from the shadows of the rear basement corner. Even injured and exhausted, my body reacted on instinct and my hand closed around the dagger in my belt the same second the first word left the intruder’s mouth.
It turned out to be a wasted effort.
My ex-partner stood there in the gloom with the cheerful grin of an Issillian barrow wolf plastered across his face.
His ability to come from nowhere never failed to astonish.
Even me.
“Mr. Noble,” I exhaled. My relieved cackle threatened to descend into something else. “Fancy meeting you here.”
I dropped back against the wall, then slid down the brick surface. My body felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.
He knelt beside me, plucked a chunk of gore from my shoulder and examined it idly.
“I heard Silman the Pig found somebody to get his package out, and I thought of you. Then I heard he sent Craydon Cole to look after his interests, and I figured you would try this route because Cole wouldn’t dare kill you ‘til you got him safely here. I decided I would just wait nearby to see if you needed my help.”
I rested my face in my hands, unable to find a response. The laugh from a moment ago continued to grow inside my chest, and not in a good way.
“By the way,” he continued, “where is the inimitable Mr. Cole?”
I couldn’t stop the giggles bubbling up, escaping out of my mouth.
“He couldn’t make it,” I chortled. “He had an unexpected lunch date.”
It really wasn’t the least bit funny, but that didn’t matter at the moment.
I descended into helpless gales of laughter, well aware they were coming from a very bad place. My battered and bruised body screamed in fresh pain from the wracking laughs.
“Cargill, are you okay?”
He must have been truly worried to depart from our timeworn aliases.
We had been Mr. Chance and Mr. Noble for nearly a decade. He lifted my arm and stared at the fang from the dead monstrosity still hanging from my sleeve. The grisly memento dripped with toxin, and I hadn’t dared touch it. He looked from it, then to me, in obvious concern.
“Are you okay?” he repeated.
The laughter wouldn’t stop, giving me no chance to answer him.
“Cargill!”
I knew if I didn’t say something quick, he was going to slug me.
“I-I’m okay, Keris,” I managed to choke out. “I’ve got to get this package to Ruby Keralt. Are the riots going on outside here?”
“They’re going on to the south now. But you are in no shape to deal with somebody as dangerous as Ruby. I assume you have a backup plan.” He paused, then added with a slight grin, “Knowing you, you’ve got six of them.”
I was still fighting for composure, so I settled for pulling out the money belt I had cut off what remained of Craydon Cole.
“What’s that?”
“It seems I’ve already been paid for the job.”
He looked at me with wry evaluation.
“Then you don’t have to deliver anything. Let’s get out of here and get you some new clothes and a drink.”
I shook my head, struggling to regain some self-control.
“You know me better than that.”
Keris gave a rueful chuckle and shook his head in reply. He started to give me a pat on the shoulder, then thought better of it… considering the mess.
“There are priests who don’t have your principles. Ever wonder if you’re in the wrong line of work?”
That sent me into further paroxysms of laughter.
I doubled over, with tears beginning to wet the dried blood on my face. It was too dangerous to wipe my eyes for the venom on my tunic, and my hands were so filthy they would only make matters worse. I know I must have smelled rather special, too.
“Right,” my ex-partner sighed. “What’s the backup plan?”
“Courier,” I giggled, trying to catch my breath. “We’re past the mobs and Halvin’s thugs, so let’s just mail her the damn thing and be done with it. It should be fine.”
“Done.” He stood, picked up the package, and headed for the door. “I’ll take care of it. You wait here and rest a minute. Then I’ll be back and we’ll see about that drink. I’ll try and bring back a clean tunic, too.”
“Thank you, Mr. Noble. I owe you one.” I groaned as the laughter finally subsided. “We’ll figure it into our tally later.”
He paused at the door to the stairs and looked back at me.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
Was I?
Was I really?
“Yeah,” I lied, “I’ll be fine.”
Part One:
The Reach of Talanturos
“Ancient and labyrinthine, the city of Khrem fills the peninsula that separates the Akartic and Cambriatic Seas. It flows back from the shores like a vast tide, up both sides of the river Nur, and swallows many of the hills at the peninsula’s base. The Great Third Wall protects its flanks from enemies that haven’t shown themselves in generations. Towers from earlier walls, engulfed by the city long ago, still stand above much of the other buildings. Huge statues crown the hills, both inside and outside the outer wall, effigies of mighty kings of yore. And in the lower harbor the Autarch, the mightiest sta
tue of them all, stands waist deep in the sea and watches over the ships of commerce as they come and go. From its cavernous streets, to its sunless canals, to its forest of rooftop spires and domes…Khrem is as much a marvel of man as the many wonders it contains.”—From Norothindor’s Geography for the Aspharite Pilgrim
The calm and sane life I built for myself ended on a morning that started like any other.
"Good morning, sir. Your muffin and klavet await."
Never one to keep a good muffin waiting, I threw off my sheet and pulled on a blue silk robe as I followed Grabel out to my upstairs patio.
A sultry breeze floated in off the Cambriatic, embracing my little house on the side of Klyburn Hill, and substituting the smells of the city with the scent of the sea. I took a seat at the small table prepared for me, and gazed out over the moonlit city stretched below. Grabel assumed his station behind me, along with his usual demeanor of silent disapproval.
He always insisted that my morning ritual involved me getting up at a time unseemly for a man of my station. Early to bed and early to rise are supposed to be the province of the laborer, in his worldview—not the successful purveyor in rare tomes and antiquities. I guess he didn't want people to wander by, see my light on the patio, and get the idea that I actually worked for a living.
I confess, now that I am Cargill the Bookseller, the pretensions of my new class are still a mystery to me.
"So, what news have you managed to scare up this early, Grabel?" I sipped my klavet and spread herbed butter over the hot muffin as I waited for the sleeping city to come to life. "Any business today?"
"None scheduled, sir, although Ceros the Architect has invited you to attend the big hangings in Three Gallows Square with him and his family. There is supposed to be a beheading on the execution schedule, too...something about the judge showing respect for the prisoner's culture."
Lovely.
"Um, give Ceros my regrets, Grabel." I'd been avoiding a noose, among other things, for too much of my life to develop a taste for attending hangings now. "Tell him I've got an appointment or something."
"Very good, sir. But you're never going to get to know your neighbors if you keep avoiding social outings with them."
"I'll have to work on that."
I think Grabel delights in getting me invited to executions.
I took a bite of my muffin and watched the sky lighten to the east. In less than an hour, the Haribbean priests would be singing their greeting of the dawn from their slender towers. Below, I could see small dots of light starting to move through the dark labyrinth of Khrem's streets and alleyways...lanterns on vending street carts as they trundled toward their daytime stations in time for the morning crowds. Other figures without lanterns would be skulking their way back to their different lairs and dens, to be replaced by the less dangerous pickpockets and thieves of the day.
There had been a time when this was the most dangerous time of the night for me, trying to get back to wherever I lived with my nightly haul and my life intact. Now that I lived above all that, a respectable sort of man with a respectable sort of occupation, I found this to be my favorite time of the day.
Now I enjoyed beginning my day in the early hours, instead of ending it.
And like every day for the past year-and-a- half, I began my morning by sitting out on the upper patio of my house overlooking the city and watching it awaken before me. Grabel would have a hot mug of scented klavet waiting for me on the small round table, along with a red paper lantern that provided a functional amount of light without forcing one's eyes to readjust from the dark. Watching the dark mass beneath me reminded me how far I had come, and out of what I escaped. The reminders helped keep the nightmares at bay.
"Isn't it a bit early for roof hopping, sir?"
"What?" I recovered from my reverie. "Where?"
"Northeast, sir. The wool district, I believe."
I squinted out over the moonlit spires and rooftops, waiting for a hint of motion to catch my eye. I didn't have to wait long.
"I see him. Good eye, Grabel. That's the roof to the wool warehouse on Indigo Street. He's not a complete amateur—he's following the Upperways there."
"I wouldn't know, sir."
Smug bastard.
"See how he's running low along the roof, nearly at the edge? That's because the higher part of that roof is rotten and poorly maintained."
"Yes, sir."
I frowned at the runner in the distance.
"He's going too fast, though. If he knows the Upperways there, he should know better."
"Sir?"
I leaned forward, gripping the rail of the patio. The runner sprinted along the edge of the roof at an insane pace. I couldn't fathom what prompted such foolhardiness, but the distance between him and disaster narrowed rapidly.
"He's about to have to make a short jump to the roof of Dyers Hall. That roof is at a steeper angle and has slate shingles. He needs to slow down now, or else..."
"Or else, sir?"
I held my breath as the runner reached the point of no return. It was too late for him to alter course or try to stop. It now came down to his skill, his luck, and whatever gods smiled upon him.
He didn't make it.
He tried to make the jump, and I think he realized his error at the last moment, because it appeared he attempted to slow himself.
But it was too late.
The runner cleared the short expanse between the roofs, then hit the slate surface off balance while at full sprinting momentum. Shingles flew and the little silhouette tumbled out of control.
I watched in sick fascination, knowing what had to happen next. Arms and legs flailed as the figure skidded down the steep angle, seeking some form of purchase simply not there. One final twist as he rolled in hopes of catching a gutter that didn't exist, then he disappeared over the edge.
He was too far away to hear the scream.
"The Upperways are unforgiving of fools," I muttered, a sacrament I learned as a boy and heard spoken far too often.
At least Grabel refrained from saying something snotty at the runner's misfortune, which counted as a true humanitarian gesture coming from him.
Instead, he stood silent in the lightening morning gloom and left me to my thoughts. They were not happy ones. I have little use for omens, or superstitions of that nature, but this started the day on an unsettling note. The sky brightened while I pondered whether or not hoping the runner had landed on his head counted as well wishing.
I have seen worse outcomes.
"Sir, if I might direct your attention to the lower harbor, I think you will see something of more current interest to you."
Roused from my thoughts, I followed his pointing arm.
Across the city, the lower harbor grew more visible as day approached. I spotted the distinctive scarlet and gold flags of a Palidesian ship docked near the Morvani warehouse. It had not been there the day before, and I felt the stirring of hope that this might be the one bearing a parcel, or failing that, some word from the Lyceum archives at Anckot.
As if on cue, I heard somebody ring the small bell at my front gate.
Grabel slipped back into the house to answer the door while I remained on the porch. My caller could be from one of the several agents searching for items I wished to acquire, or even the delivery of other items I had previously purchased, but the presence of the Palidesian ship raised my hopes.
Six months ago, I received a third-hand report that the second volume of Marchen's Chronicles of Nur had been spotted in the Anckot Lyceum’s archives. I knew a merchant traveling to Anckot, so I gave him instructions to search the archives for that particular volume, and the promise to pay him a nice commission for an authenticated copy of it if he found one. Such an acquisition would be a true prize, one I could use to make a very tidy sum selling to the highest bidder. I sipped my cooling klavet and awaited my manservant’s return.
After a longer-than-expected absence, Grabel appeared at the patio do
or.
“Sir, there is a package from Anckot awaiting you on the sitting room table,” he droned in his most formal of voices. “It would appear your parcel from the Lyceum has arrived.”
“The sitting room? Why is it on the sitting room table, man? You should have brought it straight to me!”
“It has been delivered by a detachment of the City Watch, sir.” Grabel intoned. “Led by a Captain Wilhelm Drayton. They also await you in the sitting room. Shall I bring them to the patio as well?”
***
A Captain?
“Grabel, get back downstairs, see to their comfort, and tell them I am dressing and will join them shortly.”
“Very good, Sir.”
A Captain?
I rushed into my bedchamber to throw on more respectable clothes, while desperately trying to figure out anything I had done in the past year-and-a-half that would merit a visit by the City Watch... and a Watch Captain.
Captains seldom left their Watch houses except for the most extraordinary of circumstances, like leading troops against rioters or to share in the glory of the really big arrests.
No riots were currently going on in my sitting room, and I didn’t even want to think about the latter, so perhaps this visit concerned some irregularity involving the package from Anckot. I try to keep my business dealings scrupulously legal, but in some of these transactions, you never know if a middleman has gotten greedy and played fast and loose with the rules. If that happened with the package, I would cheerfully clear up whatever indiscretions may have been made in its acquisition.
I threw on a white cotton tunic with embroidered knotwork running up the sleeves and added a blue silk belt. With the addition of plain grey leggings and a pair of felt slippers, I did a quick study of my appearance in the mirror to make sure I looked the part of your average, mid-to-upper-scale seller of rare tomes.
“And that’s what I am, damn it all.”
My reflection glowered back at me, a smallish and somewhat dapper man with dark hair and nondescript features. Fortunately, all the scars were in places where they could be easily concealed, making my disguise complete.
The Ways of Khrem Page 1
