Halfway across the room, his eyes wandered to the Dominion game continuing in the corner between the man, who was sitting back with a satisfied smile on his face, and the woman, who grimaced at the board. She was overmatched and in some difficulty. Her first tier looked solid, but her pieces on the second and third tiers were in disarray. If she kept going like this, the game would be over soon. Her eyes kept flicking to the silver coins beside the board as she thought about her next move and chewed on a fingernail. By the look of her clothes, she wasn’t as well off as the man opposite her and had the look of someone who had found the stakes of the game distressing once it had turned against her.
On an impulse, Caldan quickly skirted through the crowd and up to his room, where he jotted a few sentences on a piece of parchment. Exiting his room, he descended the stairs and beckoned to the waitress, then tasked her with delivering the folded parchment to the lady playing Dominion. The waitress winked at him and giggled, then sauntered off towards the players.
Let her think what she wants, thought Caldan, shaking his head on the way back to his room, not lingering to see if the note was delivered to the lady or what her reaction was.
He had drifted off to sleep when a knock on his door woke him to a semi-conscious state. Half-thinking he was dreaming, he lay there listening, and a few moments later the knock came again. Stumbling to the door, he made sure his improvised crafting lock was still active, brushing his hand across both pieces of paper. A light vibration and warmth told him the sorcery was still working, but he could feel it wasn’t as strong as two days ago. The paper couldn’t hold the forces much longer.
“Hello?” he said. “Who is it?”
There was a hesitation from the person on the other side. “It’s the woman who was playing Dominion, the one you sent a note to. I need to talk to you.”
Caldan passed his hand over the crafting, this time whispering a few words. As he spoke, the vibration and warmth died away, leaving an odor that reminded him of lemons. He should have known the lady might try to find out where the note had come from.
He turned the key in the lock and pulled the door open halfway. “Good evening,” he said, voice fuzzy and stifling a yawn. “Sorry, I was asleep. No need to thank me for the note. I thought you might need some help. You looked like the game meant a lot more to you than it did to your opponent.”
She stood in the hallway, an annoyed expression on her face. “I wasn’t going to thank you. Here’s your note back.” She held out the folded piece of parchment.
“Ah… why not? I don’t normally offer advice to strangers, but…it looked like you needed it.”
“Looks can be deceiving. Here, take it back.” She pressed the note into his hand. “I wanted to tell you your solution to salvage the game was elegant. Will you be playing at the Autumn Festival?”
Caldan’s thoughts were trying to catch up to the conversation. “Um… no. I’m not sure yet.” He frowned. “Why didn’t you need my help?”
“That’s good. The less competition the better. I lost that game, but luckily managed to win the next two against him, after he upped the stakes.” She smiled a wry, lopsided smile. “He was terribly upset at losing so many silver ducats, but you should only bet what you can afford to lose, I always say.”
He finally woke up to her game. “I see… You make your living playing Dominion?”
“Of a sort,” she replied. “Listen, it’s late and I need to sleep. I came to offer some advice. Passing hints or strategies might be acceptable for friendly games, but when ducats are involved it’s best you keep to yourself. If he had thought I was cheating it would have gone badly for me. At the very least I wouldn’t have been able to keep the coins. Keep your thoughts to yourself, please.”
Caldan hadn’t realized he could have caused trouble for her, but thinking about it now, of course he could have. It was stupid of him to have interfered in a game where ducats were at stake.
“Um… I think the serving girl thought I was propositioning you.” He blushed. “I am sure she didn’t think there was anything else to the note.”
The lady sighed. “That’s good, I suppose. As long as my reputation stays clean I will still be welcome to play. I can see you are new to Anasoma. Think before you act, that’s all.” She turned on her heel and disappeared down the hall, descending the stairs to the common room.
Caldan closed the door, reactivated his crafted lock and lay back on his cot, hands behind his head. Stupid, he thought. Of course someone might have thought she was cheating if they had seen the note. Maybe the stress of the last few days was affecting him.
Chapter Twelve
With a loud clunk the bolt slid home in the thick door, and Amerdan paused to catch his breath. The streets outside were filled with smoke, and his eyes, nose and throat felt choked with the smell of burning.
Today was the last day of the Ghost Festival. For days households had lit fires to incinerate symbolic offerings to the ghosts, to make sure they didn’t come into their homes and bring bad luck. Many built their fires on their front steps or at the front of their dwellings, thinking the ghosts were more likely to come in that way. Amerdan had passed many people placing wrapped offerings into the flames. The acrid smoke from so many fires irritated him; scents of burnt food, parchment, cloth and fragrant woods assaulted his nostrils, and he had hurried to get back to his shop and leave it behind.
He took a few deep breaths to get rid of any lingering scent, wiped the back of his hand across his nose and blinked a few times.
His shop stood empty. Still and silent. He moved behind the polished counter, as always keeping an eye out for anything untoward. He reached up and gently grasped the gray rag doll, cradled it in one arm and walked out the back door into the courtyard.
A brazier had been set up next to the well, set with kindling and coke ready to be ignited. Amerdan liked to use coke for this day; it burnt hot and bright and never left anything behind.
He carefully placed the rag doll on the lip of the well. It sat there looking at him.
“There you go,” he murmured.
The night was dark, cold. Sounds from the nearby street and houses floated to his ears, people passing by on the way to or coming from a party for the festival; the clinking of plates from next door, where dinner was being served; the drunken laugh of someone who had made too merry this night, and snorts from his five pigs. His courtyard was dark, save for glimmers from the lanterns of passing people reflected over the walls. He stood still, letting the coldness of the night wash over him and absorbing some of the calm it lent.
Enough, he decided. He produced a packet and extracted a thin stick with a white tip. With a flick of his wrist he scraped the stick on the well and the phosphorus ignited. Soon, a fire crackled in the brazier.
Amerdan waited patiently until he judged it hot enough, then spoke into the night.
“Revered ancestors, be my protection against the wickedness and snares of the ghosts, those who wander the eternal twilight between our world and yours. Help them find peace, and guide them away from here, where their spirits may linger to do harm.”
He bent to a wicker basket by his feet and withdrew a handful of tiny stick figures. All made by him over the last few days, they were remarkably detailed. Each had different clothes made from winding strips of cloth around their legs, torsos and arms. Colored beads for eyes were glued to small wooden heads, and lifelike hair had been attached as well. There were seventeen in all.
One by one, Amerdan took each figure, looked into its eyes and repeated a short phrase, making sure to name each one.
The first, a figure of a man with green bead eyes, went into the brazier. Flames licked greedily at the offering.
“Christophe Morrow, rest in peace. Do not search for me, do not come for me. My life and soul are barred to you, now and forever.” Amerdan’s voice quivered. Christophe deserved worse than burning. He spat onto the figure as the flames consumed it.
He waited until it h
ad burned completely before continuing. The second figure went into the brazier, a woman with a short brown skirt.
“Lydia Fortescue, rest in peace. Do not search for me, do not come for
me. My life and soul are barred to you, now and forever.”
Again, he waited until the figure had been consumed by the fire before continuing, and one by one the pile of wooden figures slowly diminished. He waited a few minutes for each one to be fully burnt and the smoke to dissipate. By the time he reached for the seventeenth and final figure an hour had passed.
He held the last figure tightly for a moment, then stroked the few strands of hair on its head. Two strips of red cloth had been tied as a belt and a ribbon in its hair. He threw it onto the glowing coals and gritted his teeth as it began to burn. Such a sweet young girl.
“Daphne, rest in peace. Do not search for me, do not come for me. My life and soul are barred to you, now and forever.”
He remained still, one hand clutching the pendant around his neck as he watched the coals and the wavy heat emanating from them. A loud shout outside from a boisterous reveler broke his reverie, and he shook himself. Standing there, the cold night air had chilled him, despite the hot brazier.
Tenderly, he picked up the rag doll.
“Come on,” he said to it. “I need a strong drink.”
They went inside, closing the door behind them.
Chapter Thirteen
Caldan rolled onto his side again and pushed his thin blanket away. He had tossed and turned for the whole night and had drifted in and out of a restless sleep. His muscles protested as he rose and stretched then drank a few mouthfuls from a flask of heavily watered wine he had bought. It quenched his thirst but left a sour taste in his mouth. He missed the plain drinking water at the monastery, but most water in the city couldn’t be trusted, despite the aqueducts, so many people drank ale or watered wine instead.
Dawn began to brighten the dirty window of his room, and he felt a restless need to get out and stretch his legs before breakfast. Descending the stairs, he passed through an empty common room and out onto the street, which was virtually empty at this early hour except for one or two early risers. Without thinking, he headed left and walked towards Dockside. Since arriving, he hadn’t been back there and wondered if perhaps it looked and felt better in the early morning light.
Streets and buildings he passed looked completely different, coming as he was from another direction, and it gave him an eerie feeling of being in a strange new place.
Anasoma was big, large enough that it would take almost a day’s walk from one end of the city to another. Even if you took the main roads, there was always traffic, which slowed your progress. To Caldan it was too big, too much traffic, too many people, roads too wide and chaotic. Walking in the early morning showed him another side of the city, one more peaceful, despite the smells of urine, smoke and sweat lingering in the air. The few people he passed in the street still kept their eyes to themselves, though.
Without the usual crowds, it wasn’t long before he reached the docks. The Otter was much closer to the water than he thought. Ships bobbed in the morning swell, decks deserted save for the few crewmen of each ship on watch. At the end of the closest wharf he could see the Loretta was still in port. He decided against a visit, since most likely everyone would be still asleep, or drunk in a tavern somewhere.
A few dirty shapeless lumps lay behind piles of crates covered with canvas, homeless men having found somewhere out of the wind to sleep the night. Soon they would be lined up at the docks, hoping a ship would be in need of cheap labor for a day or a few hours.
Caldan walked along the dock front before heading down a side street, eager to explore the city and see what this district had to offer. A few turns later, winding through an alley between two stone buildings, he came upon a plaza with six exits, the windows and balconies overlooking the space all shuttered tight. Choosing a passage at random, he ducked into a series of narrow alleys. Garbage had piled up here and there, and the smell of something rotten filled his nostrils.
Turning, he started back the way he had come, but an older man stepped from a dark alcove filled with rubbish. He was broad-shouldered and had wild eyes that bulged from under a mop of dark hair. Dirt smudged his face, and patches of skin showed through his ragged clothes.
“Hi there!” the man called, eyes flicking left and right. “You lost?”
A scrape behind Caldan alerted him, and he twisted his head to see two more men emerge from garbage piles against the walls. They moved to block the alley.
“Yeah,” one of them said. “Looks to me like he needs some help, Zeke.” He smiled, showing brown teeth.
“No names, idiot!” the first man said.
This isn’t good, thought Caldan. He retreated a few steps until his back brushed the side wall, trying to keep all three in view. “I’m not lost, just took a wrong turn. Sorry to bother you, gentlemen.”
“Ooh gentlemen, is it?” the third ragged man said as they came closer, forming a half circle around him. All of them now had feral grins pasted on their faces.
Caldan’s hand felt for his half full purse, the only ducats he had left, but he wasn’t in a position to bargain. “Here,” he gasped, “take it. I don’t want any trouble.”
Zeke’s expression turned sour and he sneered. The other two took a step closer, almost in unison. They must have done this before. “Well, thank you kindly for offering us what we can take anyway. Is that a joke? ’Cause we don’t think it’s funny, do we, boys?”
They all laughed as Zeke snatched the purse from Caldan’s hand, and practiced fingers felt through the material. His expression darkened.
“What’s this? There ain’t hardly any coins in here!”
Zeke’s two cronies stepped in and grabbed Caldan’s arms.
“It’s all I have. Take it and leave me alone.” Caldan became acutely aware that he hadn’t thought to obtain a weapon of any kind as so far nothing in Anasoma had been cause for alarm. Swords were forbidden, but he wished he had purchased a heavy walking stick.
Zeke stepped forward and, before Caldan could react, elbowed him hard. Caldan’s head rang, and the buildings tilted wildly around him. His legs felt like jelly, but the two men held him upright. He could smell their rotten breath and the rancid odor of their bodies.
“You bloody shit!” Zeke shouted. “Think you can walk here in our territory and get off with a few coins? You boys know what happens when someone can’t pay the toll.” Zeke backed off a few steps and picked up a length of thick wooden plank lying on the ground.
“We sure do, boss.” The man holding Caldan’s right arm guffawed as he tugged him closer. “You shouldn’t come here if you don’t belong, and if you can’t pay us proper, you gets a beating.”
Caldan tensed and shook his head, trying to clear the fog in his mind. Zeke came towards him with the plank held in both hands.
Fear and anger boiled up inside Caldan. He jerked his arms together, and to his surprise the two men holding them both stumbled and thumped into each other in front of him. Zeke tried to check his swing but the plank thudded into one of his own men with a crack, and the man yelped in pain and shock.
Caldan lashed out with his knee, hitting the man on his left in the stomach, who dropped like a stone and released his grip.
Zeke slammed into Caldan, and he flew back against the wall. He gasped for breath. A fist caught him in the side of the head. He went to his knees, blood roaring in his ears, right arm twisted behind his back.
“You bastard,” Zeke bellowed, face turning red. “I’m gonna smash your face in!” He stepped back to make room and swung the plank.
Splintered wood hit Caldan in the face, knocking his head back into the wall. Burning pain filled his face. Metallic tasting blood flooded his mouth, his vision blurred.
He shook his head and looked up to see Zeke take a step back. The plank moved for another strike.
Caldan’s left hand clenched
into a fist and struck out at his captor to the closest vital spot he knew. It connected with the man’s plums with a sickening thud. He squawked and fell to the ground, curled into a ball, both hands clutched between his legs.
Caldan dropped on top of him. The wind of the plank passing above his head ruffled his hair. It hit the wall, and the jarring impact drove it out of Zeke’s hands.
“Argh!” exclaimed Zeke.
Caldan rolled off the man and staggered to his feet. Zeke clenched and unclenched his fists. Both his cronies were down, one sucking in lungfuls of air to get his wind back, the other whimpering like a dying dog.
Zeke’s expression had gone wilder. “Oh, you’re really gonna get it now. You’re gonna wish you weren’t born.”
Caldan eyed the exit to the alley back the way he had come. If he could get enough room to slip free…
Zeke rushed at him, arms outstretched. Caldan pivoted and lashed out with a fist. His knuckles cracked, and a sharp pain exploded in his hand. The impact to Zeke’s head drove the man to the ground.
Caldan staggered to the other side of the alley and leaned against the wall. Something warm trickled down the side of his face where the plank had hit him. He wiped at it and his hand came away scarlet. Drops of blood dripped onto the ground. He couldn’t focus on what to do next.
Zeke stood, face twisted into a murderous sneer, and tugged his winded companion to his feet. “You’re bloody dead now. I’m gonna kill you!”
Caldan steadied himself, wiping his sticky hand on his pants. Zeke and his companion moved to either side.
A shout came from Caldan’s left. “Halt! Harbor watch! What’s going on here?”
A Crucible of Souls (Book One of the Sorcery Ascendant Sequence) (Volume 1) Paperback Page 13
