by Tom Lloyd
CHAPTER 26
Corl went to the window again and peered down at the street below. Sundown had come and gone without remark by those outside, only Corl and his two companions seemed to have noticed. Within their room all was calm, outside reigned chaos more frenzied and desperate than usual. Tirah was draped in the colours of high summer; a haphazard network of ropes linked the rooftops, from which trailed twists of ribbon and cloth - in bright greens and yellows, for the main. In the sky, long furrows of cloud whipped by overhead, swallowing starlight like ravening dragons.
From his narrow window Corl could see effigies of half a dozen Gods, hanging from the ropes and painted on walls. Nartis was present, of course, but this was one of the few days when he was outnumbered in the Farlan cities. Tsatach, Belarannar and Kitar were just as dominant, while the Goddesses of Love were cheered and toasted as a trio, even at this late hour when the thoughts of many had turned to worship Etesia, Goddess of Lust.
A statue of Vrest made of sticks and animal skins stood tall over long spits of pork that dripped into a makeshift fire-pit just off the main street. As Corl watched, the woman tending it cut the first choice slice and tossed to her drooling dog, an offering to the God of Beasts. Corl smiled, remembering the festivals of his childhood, how the wonder had filled his whole body. Fate had taken him on difficult paths since then, but the memories endured, and despite his chosen profession, Corl remembered the boy he had been with a light heart.
It was the Midsummer’s Day Festival, and throughout Tirah the drink had been flowing freely for hours. Corl leaned out of the window again to check on the old woman passed out below - she’d found herself a snug little nook in a stack of wooden pallets just as the sun had been falling; either she was so drunk she couldn’t remember the way home, or she had no home to return to and was taking advantage of the cheap festival beer to solve her problems for a night.
Corl hadn’t been the only one to spot her settling down to sleep it off; if he’d not whistled and wagged a warning finger at the pair of youths sidling up to her hiding spot, she’d probably have had those problems solved forever. As it was, they’d left her alone. He could make out the outline of her bundled shape well enough to see it hadn’t been disturbed since last he checked.
There would be rich pickings elsewhere for the youths, Corl had no illusions about that, but it wasn’t just the risk of their actions attracting the Palace Guard that prompted his intervention. It was Midsummer’s Day, and whatever he had planned for the dark hours of night, Corl was not a man angry at the Land, a detail that had served him well over the years. His childhood had been poor but loving, and Midsummer’s Day remained a fond memory for him. No one deserved to be robbed and murdered on this day if he could prevent it with a look.
Unless I’m being paid for it, o’ course, Corl reminded himself. His scarred cheeks crinkled, distorting the tattoos and scars that had scared the boys off. Whether or not they understood the markings on his right cheek, few cutpurses would fail to recognise the mark of Kassalain on the other.
Those that don’t, don’t last too long.
The Goddess of Murder’s shrine might be hidden away in the cellar of a long-abandoned house well away from the Temple District, but her mark was well known, and always afforded respect. Corl was a short man who didn’t look that strong; without Kassalain’s sign on his face, he’d have provided his mistress with many more offerings over the years as men mistook him for an easy target. The irony was not lost on the Priestess of Kassalain, but she was as fickle as her Goddess, she found the irony amusing.
‘Not long now. Light the burner,’ Corl called softly over his shoulder.
He received no reply; neither of them liked following his orders much, but Corl was well aware anyone who ended up a blade for hire was bound to have a few flaws. He’d worked with this pair on and off for several years now, and they respected his skills, enough to do what he told them, at least. The younger of the two, who called himself Orolay, was keen to join Corl as a devotee of Kassalain, but the older - Isen, a sour-faced ex-soldier like Corl, didn’t care about anything beyond earning enough coin to survive.
In a city where the Hands of Fate, those devotees of the Lady trained as spies and assassins, had been numerous, there had been little work for the followers of the weaker Goddess of Murder. Corl was the best of those aligned to the hidden temple, but following the Lady’s death, the priestess had started receiving overtures, a few making attempts to court the Goddess’ favour. The most recent had provided them with a commission - some rat-faced foreigner needing a most unusual job done, and without the ability to do it himself. Whatever quarrel there might be was beyond Corl’s fathoming, but the coin offered was good.
Corl caught a sniff of the pungent, earthy smoke coming from the burner on the table behind him and he turned. As he approached the table he wafted some of the smoke towards him, filling his lungs with it. He muttered a mantra to Kassalain and drew his longknife, holding it edge-on to the burner so the smoke caressed it, then repeating the gesture and saying a second mantra. He did the same with each of his weapons - two longknives, two shorter blades, a stiletto and a blowpipe - and with each there was a growing awareness of the textures under his fingers, the hang of his clothes on his body, the clamour of merriment surrounding their room like a cocoon. He gave a slight shiver of pleasure as the drug raced through his body; he felt a heady jolt in his muscles.
Corl ignored Orolay as the young man copied him, doing his best to smother his coughs on the drug-smoke. Isen drew his own fat knife with a studded finger-guard and tapped it on the table, then, that small gesture of respect done, fetched his costume and pulled it on over his regular clothes. Orolay and Corl followed suit a short while later. Corl’s was the most dramatic - he’d found something approximating a Chetse’s desert robe, albeit one he suspected would make a Chetse burst out laughing, but it came with a headdress that would hide his tattoos as effectively as it would protect against a desert wind.
Corl felt the drug-smoke increase its grip on him. It started with a tingle in his head: a bright, sparkling warmth that flowed down his spine and into his limbs. Orolay now had a broad grin, exhilarated by the sharpening effect of the drug on his senses. Isen refused to allow himself to enjoy it, but still the man shook out his arms and shoulders, flexing muscles now brimming with renewed energy. Corl smiled himself and tasted the air, breathing in the musky odour of the room and the dusty pine scent of its walls. He remembered the clouds racing outside and for a moment felt his spirit move with them, surging on with swift, joyful purpose.
Kassalain’s Milk affected people differently. For Corl it heightened his senses - hyper-awareness of everything around him was her gift. As an assassin he valued that more than the sense of strength and invulnerability Isen got from the smoke.
Fast way to be killed, that, he thought, watching the taciturn man suddenly become animated, like a restless wolf. Orolay’s got it like me; maybe he’ll make a decent devotee after all.
‘Come,’ Corl breathed, savouring the delicious sensation of the word slipping out through his lips.
Isen moved forward so quickly only his sharpened reactions stopped him being hit with the door as Corl opened it and went through. Isen, desperate to be moving, was almost hopping behind Corl as the smaller man walked down the dark, narrow staircase to the open doorway of the tenement block. Laughter rang out from rooms on both sides: families celebrating together, having exhausted themselves dancing and cheering on the many entertainments.
The Chief Steward had supposedly distributed thousands of gold crowns so the population might drink to the memory of Lord Isak. Corl hadn’t been able to tell if there had been genuine affection for the young white-eye, but his name was certainly being shouted in toast, so he guessed Chief Steward Lesarl would be satisfied. The cults were keeping a low profile this year - that was understandable given the place was teeming with soldiers ready to forcibly disarm any penitent forces stupid enough to get caugh
t.
Corl chuckled to himself. Things certainly weren’t dull around Tirah, not now at any rate, with the so-called peace treaty with the Menin overshadowed by the assassination attempt on Count Vesna. Some said it had been a beast from the Waste, but Corl took that with a pinch of salt; a friend heard it was Corl himself dead at the sword of Count Vesna - the man damn nearly shat himself with fright when he walked into a tavern to find Corl drinking at the bar.
It had been a hard few months, blood being spilled on all sides, but today was Midsummer’s day and the people were damn well going to celebrate. The flutter of cloth above their heads was like a riot of swooping birds. That suited Corl, he thought, as he led them into the street to the tavern on the other side. Lots of crowds to get lost in, none of ’em sober enough to notice much. The door was wide open and some drunk was leading a song within, but there was also a tapped barrel outside manned by a man with thick arms and a thicker waist. He was taller than any of the three assassins, and his hair hung about his shoulders in many braids, each of which was tied with a red ribbon. Corl noticed the man had one finger missing, and a mass of scars down his wrist.
A veteran, he thought, one who cashed in better than I did when he retired. He inclined his head respectfully to a fellow ex-soldier and ordered two beers for his comrades and a jug of wine for himself. The desert-robe trembled in the breeze, flattening against his front and leaping madly behind him. Corl could feel the air rush past his body, given form by the long, smooth cloth.
‘You seen battle?’ the barman said cheerily, clearly having sampled his own wares during the day. ‘Got soldier’s eyes, y’have.’
‘Aye, more’n enough,’ Corl confirmed. While the other two drank thirstily, he contented himself with running his fingers down the side of the fired clay jug. ‘But since it’s Midsummer we’re for Stock’s Circle, find a more friendly tussle.’
That earned Corl a wide grin. ‘Was a time I’d join yer; been seven year since I woke up after Midsummer happy an’ no damn clue where I was!’ The man laughed, lost for a moment in the memory. Stock’s Circle was where many folk gravitated to on Midsummer if they were looking for someone to celebrate with.
Corl gestured to the tavern. ‘Well, marriage happens to us all, so my da used to say.’
Laughter boomed around the street as the barman roared his agreement and tossed his knotted hair back from his face. ‘Damn right,’ he agreed and thumped Corl on the shoulder. ‘That obvious?’
‘Nah, I saw your offerings earlier.’ Corl pointed up at the garlands hanging above the doorway and from the stone faces peering down from the corners of the roof. ‘They’re a woman’s work, not a soldier’s.’
The barman looked up, puzzled for a moment. It was traditional on Midsummer to put out offerings to appease the city’s gargoyles and spirits, and whatever else might be roaming the rooftops and night-time streets. The garlands were bound hoops of hazel and elder twigs with beef bones or pigskin in the centre, each one threaded with thin strips of dyed cloth like to those hanging down over the cobbled street.
‘Hazel leaves, friend? Your wife knows a witch, I’d guess, to use that. And anyways, you’d have just soaked rags in blood and hung them, not gone to all the trouble of colouring ’em yoursel’.’
The barman slowly nodded. ‘You ain’t been drinking enough this night,’ he said reproachfully before the smile returned to his face. ‘That’s better attention than a man’ll wanna pay at Stock’s Circle.’
Corl agreed and held out payment. ‘Slept off the first round - time to top misself up!’
The clatter and stomp of boots ended the conversation, as a horde of shouting, laughing people spilled around the corner. Corl thanked the barman and turned away, twitching aside his shawl to take a long gulp of the wine before the parade arrived. The parade always passed this way before winding up at Stock’s Circle, and Stock’s Circle was where one of the several Harlequins currently performing in Tirah would be until well into the morning.
Isen cheered and walked out into the centre of the street, arms stretched wide, to the jeers and yells of the folk in the parade.
The Wanton Woman and her Beasts: this same parade was happening in every Farlan town and village, in some form or another. There’d be half a dozen at least in Tirah, but in the poorer districts like this they were invariably more fun.
The parade was led by a wagon made up to look like a chariot and dragged along by more than a dozen men, some of whom were so drunk they couldn’t even walk in a straight line. The Wanton Woman herself was standing in the driver’s seat, and behind Corl could see a tangle of limbs poking out - someone getting a head-start on the fun, obviously.
Corl looked at the driver again - and gave a start. He couldn’t recognise anyone under the black feathered mask - a woman’s face outlined in white with full lips and pronounced cheeks, an echo of the ceremonial headdresses the eunuch-priests of Etesia wore for ceremonies - but when the wind caught the cloak, he recognised the diamond-pattern patchwork: it was remarkably similar to that of a Harlequin.
That’s a bad omen, Corl thought as he approached the wagon.
‘Beasts!’ the Wanton Woman bellowed, to roars of approval from the screaming rabble. ‘More beasts for my wagon!’
Laughing, Orolay and Isen grabbed at the traces of the wagon, shoving aside a couple of the more hopelessly drunk, who left without complaint, having spied the barrel of beer nearby.
‘Drink, you harlot!’ Corl shouted back at the Wanton Woman, ‘you need a man riding up here!’ Without waiting for a reply Corl hauled himself up to stand beside her and offered her the jar of wine. As the crowd behind booed at his impertinence, the Wanton Woman regarded him a moment, then reached forward and grabbed him by the crotch. Corl yelped as she squeezed a shade harder than necessary, but the gesture won the crowd’s approval and their booing turned to a swell of cheering and vulgar suggestions.
‘You’ll do!’ the Wanton Woman announced, releasing Corl and taking a swig of the wine he’d offered. She leaned closer and Corl realised the mask had a dark hood attached to it, hiding the fact her hair was cut so short underneath it - he had more on his chin. Her breath swept sweet and hot across his face. ‘You’ll get your lift, but no ride less it’s from one o’ those in the back, hear me?’
Corl nodded and she gave him a friendly slap on the shoulder. Her strength took him by surprise and the gesture nearly knocked him off the driver’s seat, but she only laughed and yelled for her beasts to march on.
‘And keep an eye on the fat one,’ she muttered as she continued to wave and blow kisses at onlookers, ‘he likes ta get rough - he does it again, I’ll cut his bloody nuts off.’
Corl looked behind him at the half-dozen men and woman in the back of the wagon. They all appeared to be enjoying themselves; one entirely naked woman was riding a gasping bean-pole of a youth, her elbows on his shoulders and his head pressed against her breasts. At the back was one far fatter than the rest. He was shirtless, with his belly hanging out; he and another man were fondling a beautiful woman dressed like a dancing girl.
He faced the front again, took the wine back from the driver and drank, long and slow, enjoying the sensation of the liquid slipping down his throat - until the driver grabbed it back. He looked around. Behind him, the fat man had unbuttoned the dancing girl’s blouse to expose her beautifully rounded breasts. In front of him Isen and Orolay looked perfectly happy straining away at the traces.
He hopped into the back, shoved the fat man off the back of the wagon with his boot and bent over the dancing girl. He let the shawl drop from his face, trusting to darkness and drink that she’d not recognise the marks on his face, and kissed her, long and hard. She wrapped her arms around his head and the other man got the message and shifted to the side, joining the naked woman and her youth. The journey to Stock’s Circle was short, but deliciously sweet.
When they arrived Corl took his time saying his goodbyes. Stock’s Circle was still full of people, dou
btless waiting for the Wanton Woman to arrive and signal the culmination of the night’s fun. He felt the press of voices and movement all around, mingling with the salty taste of the dancing girl’s sweat and the heat of her body.
Their destination had once been a place of punishment, but the pit at the centre of the crossroads had been converted for entertainment decades ago. Now steps led down into the pit, and when fruit was thrown it was only a commentary on the performance. On the eastern edge was a half-moon gallery a hundred yards long, occupied by taverns and eateries, and a renowned glassblower’s workshop. With food, drink and entertainment all close at hand, the Circle had become the natural heart of entertainment in this part of the city.
Midsummer’s Day was a festival for the common folk, one of the few sanctioned by every cult that mattered, and a Harlequin was guaranteed to be here, performing for the masses. As an impatient Isen dragged Corl away from the delicious dancing-girl, who was still pouting prettily at him, a chill went down his spine. Their prey was singing bawdy songs, accompanied by a choir of hundreds. Corl’s ardour was immediately dampened; the dancing-girl vanished from his mind, replaced by the images of Kassalain in her temple.
