by Col Buchanan
But seeing Baso laugh out loud like that as the ship heaved under his feet and the sky raged above his head, so alive in the madness of the moment and without fear or worry for past or future, or even now… The sight had straightened Osh's spine a little, and lent him courage when he needed it most.
And now Baso was gone, like so many others, and precious few of Osh's original people remained. Kosh, Shiki, Ch'eng, Shin the Seer, Ash… he could count those left from the old country on a single hand now. Those few were all that linked Osh to the distant past in his homeland. It seemed that as each one passed away he grew ever more vulnerable to their loss, and fretted ever more deeply about who might be next.
It would be Ash, he knew. Ash would go next, and his former apprentice would prove to be the bitterest loss of them all.
Ash was still out there somewhere, no doubt in Q'os in the midst of vendetta – at his age, by Dao! Osh should never have let him go, he knew. Not a man in his condition. But, in his own grief, it hadn't crossed Osh's mind to try and dissuade Ash from his decision, at least not until later, after he had already departed, when Osh had paused to realize that his old friend was most likely not coming back from this one – just as Baso had not.
He didn't know why he felt such an intense premonition, for he had experienced no tragic dreams or heard morbid readings from the Seer. He simply felt a great heaviness whenever he thought of his old friend, as though certain he would never see him again.
The whole sorry business of this vendetta made him feel like that. Osh did not think it could end in any way but badly for all of them.
At the open window, he braced his body against another gust of wind. Somewhere out of sight, a shutter banged once, twice, and then fell silent.
I have grown melancholic in my old age, he reflected, but then he chuckled at his own folly. He knew that his age had nothing to do with it.
Osh pulled closed the shutters, sealing out the storm that approached across the mountains. He shivered once more, then returned to his books and his padded chair by the welcoming warmth of the fire.
*
It was late afternoon in Q'os. The Five Cities taverna was as busy as always at that hour, with the local dockworkers and street merchants knocking off for the day, and the customary mix of outlanders staying in the area's many hostalios drawn by the taverna's fine foods and wines. In a corner, beneath the little hissing flame of a gaslight fitted to the smoke-stained plaster of the wall, six individuals sat huddled in private conversation. The local patrons paid them little notice, save for the occasional glance at the young woman in her brown leathers, for she was a sight for sore eyes to working men who had sweated for their wages since dawn, and likely to return to wives aged beyond their years by regular childbirth and hard, daily graft.
'It's impossible,' Serese kept her voice low, though the noise in the taverna was enough to easily mask her words. She seemed not to notice the occasional lingering attentions of the male patrons elsewhere in the taproom. Perhaps she was simply used to such scrutiny, and had learned to ignore it. 'I'd doubt if there's anywhere in the Miders more heavily guarded than the Temple of Whispers just now. I can't see any way it could be breached.'
Baracha, musing over his shot glass of rhulika, raised a single eyebrow in disbelief.
'I tell you it's true, father. Even the moat around the tower has been filled with some kind of fish, tiny things with a craving for flesh. They draw crowds every day, for the city watch has begun to dangle criminals into the water just for the sport of it. I saw it only three days ago. There was a great feeding frenzy, and when they drew the man from the water, the flesh on his legs was stripped to the bone. How do you reckon on getting past such an obstacle?'
Nico, sitting in glum silence next to his master, looked up at that revelation. He had never heard of flesh-eating fish before.
'I'll tell you this,' Baracha said, still unconvinced. 'In all my life I've never known a place that could not be breached, given enough time and inspiration. If we cannot swim the moat, we can raft across it.'
Serese sighed in exasperation. 'Only if you can get past the boat patrols – and evade the watchers on the steeple itself. And the regular patrols along the shore.'
'Then we disguise ourselves as one of the boat patrols, row across to the tower itself, climb it.'
'Even at night you'd stand out. They've positioned lights all around the lower floors. You wouldn't get ten feet before a patrol or one of their flyers spotted you.'
'So we forget the moat. We steal ourselves some priests' robes, cross the bridge, enter the main gates in disguise.'
It seemed easy, the way Baracha put it.
'Yes, except no one is allowed through the gates until they've placed their hands through a grill. They're checked, to see if the tips of their little fingers are missing or not. In fact, no one is allowed to even set foot on the bridge until they've been checked for that proof of identification.'
'Well then, the answer's obvious,' said Aleas, and all eyes turned to him. He grinned handsomely. 'Each of us chops the tips from our little fingers, waits some moons for them to fully heal, then walks inside unmolested.'
'Shut up, Aleas,' warned Baracha.
Aleas raised his eyebrows and glanced at Nico. A look passed between them, though Nico didn't match his friend's easy smile. He was tired today. He had slept poorly, haunted by nightmares in which he had relived, over and over again, his actions of the previous night.
'If you are to find a way inside,' Serese continued, 'it must be by some method they have not foreseen.'
Aleas was bored of this. 'He can't stay in the tower for the rest of his life. If we can't breach the place, we can wait for him to come out. Maybe during the Augere. Maybe he will come out then.'
'And what if he does not?' demanded Baracha. 'They almost had us last night. Even now, as we speak, they're likely combing the city for us. All of us are outlanders here, save for you. It's only a matter of time before they find us out. This is hardly a friendly city in which to linger, in case you hadn't noticed.'
His words silenced the group. Nico found himself observing the rest of the taproom to see if they were being watched.
There: a man turning away too quickly from Nico's glance. Nico studied him for a moment, waiting to see what he did next. The man ordered himself another drink, and continued the conversation with his companions.
Nico breathed again, trying to relax. The fellow had likely been staring at Serese, nothing else. I'm seeing phantoms, he told himself. This foul city is getting to me. I wish we could leave now and never return to it.
Baracha sat back and exhaled loudly enough to show his displeasure. 'We should take it as a compliment,' he consoled. 'They show us a great deal of respect.' But it was no answer to their problems, and Baracha was clearly troubled as he smoothed the long sweep of his beard.
For the length of their conversation, Ash had been sitting quietly with his gaze lost in his drink and the hand of his wounded arm resting in his lap. As the silence lengthened, he raised his glass of wine with his good arm, took a sip, and set the glass back down.
'We are all forgetting the obvious,' he said unexpectedly, without looking up.
Baracha folded his arms and sighed. 'And what is that, oh wise one?'
'They are expecting stealth. Not attack.'
Aleas stared, eyes wide. 'Storm the gates, you mean?'
Ash nodded, faint humour pulling at the corners of his mouth.
'A wonderful thought,' said Baracha, 'except of course that it would need an army.'
Ash studied each of their expressions in turn. He took another sip of the wine, set the empty cup back on the table with a thump of decision.
'Then, my troubled friends, we must find ourselves an army.'
*
It was bright outside, the sun shining in a rare clear sky. It was not a particularly complimentary light however, for it merely showed up the city's drab, lacklustre character even more clearly than usual. As
it filtered its way down into the canyon-like streets Nico watched as it transformed itself into something thin and muted instead.
'Meaning no offence here,' Aleas said, 'but I fear Master Ash might have lost his wits at last.' He was standing outside the taverna, along with Nico and Serese, as their two masters discussed something beyond earshot.
'I suspect he had few to begin with,' replied Nico drily. 'Do you think they will really go through with this? Truly?'
Aleas considered this question while he studied his master. 'They're both of the same cut,' he said, with a curt nod. 'Now that one has suggested it, the other will feel that he cannot back down. They will do this, even if they risk all in the trying.'
It was enough to set Nico's stomach afloat. He looked up at the distant heights of the Temple of Whispers, visible even from here in the eastern docks. He could not believe they were truly considering an attack on such a stronghold. Surely it was just talk, despite what Aleas might think. Their plans would amount to nothing in the end, and they would be forced to leave the city without finishing their vendetta. It wouldn't be the first time, or so he had heard.
But Nico understood Ash only too well now, and knew himself to be cradling a false hope. He turned away from the sight of the tower, tried to turn his thoughts to other things.
Serese studied him carefully. 'How are you this morning?' she asked.
'A little tired,' he confessed. 'I didn't sleep well. I think I will be glad to leave this place.'
'You do not like it here.'
'No, I don't. There are too many people and too few places to be alone.'
Aleas slapped his shoulder. 'Spoken like a true farmer.'
'When, in all the world, did I ever claim to be a farmer?'
'You didn't. It's the smell, mostly.'
Nico was in no mood for their usual banter, and would have said something short-tempered in return if he had not seen Baracha departing just then. The Alhazii jerked his head at Aleas and his daughter, beckoning them to follow.
Aleas nodded goodbye to Nico. 'Stay safe,' said Serese as they hurried to catch up.
Ash approached, his head bowed in thought.
'I must make some inquiries,' he informed Nico. 'Come.'
'Wait a moment.'
Ash turned back, impatient.
'This thing you're proposing – to attack the tower, I mean. It sounds like madness to me.'
The farlander's dark skin looked thinner in the afternoon sunlight. He had lost a good deal of blood the night before. 'I know,' he said, and his voice sounded tired. 'But not concern yourself with it. I made a promise to your mother to keep you safe, remember?'
'I think my mother's notion of safety and your own are two different things entirely.'
Ash nodded. 'Still, I mean to keep my promise. When we breach the tower, you will not come with me. It is too dangerous. You are hardly experienced enough for such a venture. I agree, Nico, there is a touch of madness to this plan, but I fear that a little madness is necessary if we are to see through our vendetta. When we are inside, you will stay with Serese and help us to escape the immediate area if we make it back out.'
'It isn't only myself that I'm concerned about.'
A little colour returned to the old man's face. 'I understand. But this is our business, Nico. These are the risks we must take.' He cast further debate aside with a shrug.
'Enough talk. Come.'
*
The house was on a street of many houses, all of them empty shells of former dwellings, their windows smashed or boarded up, their interiors strewn with wreckage, a few burnt black and gutted. Only the house itself was still lived in, neighboured on each side by a derelict in a terraced row of derelicts. Even then it looked barely more habitable than the rest of them. Its windows were grimy with soot and blanked from within by dark curtains. Paint that may once have been an optimistic yellow hung peeling from the brick walls. A weather-vane – depicting a naked man holding a bolt of lightning – dangled from the guttering of the roof and swung, creaking, in the soft breeze.
Nico stared up, feeling exposed beneath this swinging vane that looked as though it might topple at any moment, though probably it had hung loose like that for months before now, years even. Through the front door, the heavy knocking of the clapper still echoed within as Ash lowered his hand and stepped back to wait.
Behind them, the fringes of what was once an expansive block of buildings lay in collapsed ruins, destroyed by fire long ago. A great midden heap rose from the ruins to block out much of the sky. Rats worked across its flanks without shyness, scampering through scraps of rubbish that flapped like hands waving for help. The stench of rot was overwhelming. It was so prevalent that even the odd gust of wind could not shift it, but instead stirred it around in sudden, unexpected concoctions that made the throat gag and the eyes water.
Nico tried not to breathe as he turned back to face the heavily scratched wooden door of the house they were visiting. By his side, Ash hummed something under his breath. It didn't sound like music to Nico's ears; more a series of words spoken without actually opening the mouth.
'The art of melody was never discovered by your people then?'
The humming stopped, as Ash stared at him. The old farlander was about to speak when they heard from within a chair crashing over, or something equally as heavy. Someone swore. A chain rattled, then a bolt was withdrawn, and another. The door scraped against the floor as it was tugged inwards.
'Yes?' The woman was short, stooping almost to the waist. She clutched a lantern in one hand, a stick in the other to support her weight, as she craned her neck to squint upwards at the two strangers standing before her. Nico blinked down at her filthy face; her hair so scraggy it resembled fur; a moustache better developed than any he might have grown for himself.
'We are here to see Gamorrel,' said Ash. 'Tell him it is the far-lander.'
'What?' she said.
Ash sighed. He leaned closer to her ear.
'Your husband,' he said more loudly. 'Tell him an old farlander wishes to see him.'
'I'm not deaf,' she said. 'Come in. Come in.'
Inside, the house was much the same as on the outside. They followed the old woman as she shuffled slowly along the hallway, Nico and Ash stepping side by side as though in a processional march into the heart of some hidden temple – though a temple whose walls were built from brick coated with flaking plaster, and adorned with pictures hanging in frames too dim to see in the stuttering light of the lantern – held by the woman at the height of their waists – and a wooden floor illuminated before them, deeply coated in white dust and with grit that scratched the soles of their boots. Around them the air was filled with unholy stench, like cabbage boiled solidly for a day and a night. A rat scurried past their feet; others wormed along the edges of the hallway.
They ascended stairs that creaked beneath their weight in a manner suggestive of imminent collapse. They could only take one stair at a time, waiting for the woman to move on before taking another. Nico and Ash glanced at one another, saying nothing. Then another door: a sigil painted in red paint, or blood, depicting a seven-pointed star.
They entered a parlour: a room lit by a few smoky lanterns sitting on a table already covered with figurines, charms, stone mortars and pestles, knives, pins, other items unknowable. Sheets of cloth sagged across the ceiling, like the roof of a tent. Beneath them, on a chair positioned near the curtained window, sat an old man in a waistcoat with his hands resting upon his stomach, his eyes closed, snoring loudly. His lap was filled with a mound of rats, who lay there with tails entwined and watched the newcomers enter.
The man stirred at the sound of the door closing behind Nico and Ash. A lock of lank, black hair fell across his face and he scratched himself, then continued to snore.
'Gamorrel,' Ash said loudly, as he nudged the old fellow's foot, scattering the rats from his lap in the process.
The man did not jerk awake but instead opened the lids of a single e
ye just wide enough to peer out through them, as though to spy the lie of the land before emerging any further from the safety of sleep. At the sight of Ash his face twitched. He roused himself.
'I might have known,' emerged his time roughened voice. 'Only a Rshun would dare awaken a sleeping sharti.'
'Up. We have business to discuss.'
'Oh? What kind of business?'
A leather coin-purse dropped into his lap, the weight of it enough to jerk him upright. A grin stretched across his whiskered face, revealing teeth as brown as ale.
'Interesting,' he crooned, and rose smoothly without effort. 'Please, step into my chamber.' And he led just Ash into another room, and closed the door firmly behind them.
'Have a seat,' said the old woman, guiding Nico to one of the chairs by the window. 'Chee, yes? Some chee?'
Nico smiled and shook his head. He thought of the rats scurrying over everything, the grime and filth of the whole place, the dirt embedded in the old woman's yellowed fingernails.
'Yes?' she insisted and, before he could say no, she had shuffled off into another room, the suddenly open door releasing a cloud of steam that carried in it the humid whiff of cabbage. He heard her shoo something out of the way, and then the clinking of cups.
A mechanical clock was ticking somewhere in the parlour, though he could not see it amid all the mess and clutter crowded about the walls. The chair was uncomfortable, as though he was sitting on gravel, so he rose, and brushed a scattering of rat droppings to the floor. He sat down again gingerly. He was about to place his hands on the armrests, but changed his mind and settled them in his lap instead.
The old woman emerged precariously bearing a tray with a pot of steaming chee and two cups of white porcelain. 'Let me help with that,' Nico said, as he rose and took the tray from her, carrying it back to set on a small side table. She smiled and settled herself with care in the chair opposite him, remaining stooped even as she sat, her hand still resting on her stick. She watched him clearly as he poured the chee.
