The Marching Dead

by Lee Battersby

  “I know you’re lying.” She swung the sabre overhand again. Another slice of the rope, another quarter of its width destroyed. “You ratted us out to someone, Cheggmar. I want to know who it was.”

  “What have you done, Cheggmar?” Marius, again.

  “Nobody, mistress. I swear.” You know what’s in those tubs, brother? You know what they’re worth?

  “Last chance, traitor.”

  “For fuck’s sake, Cheggmar. Tell her!”

  “I’m not your traitor, mistress.” Absolution, brother. They’re carting absolution. You know what that’s worth on the open market? A bloody fortune, and she’s wasting it on a bunch of–

  “Chance over.” Brys stepped away from the beam and swung her sword backhanded at the rope. It bit deep, splitting the final cords and hitting wood. The severed line whipped up the beam and over the far end before Marius could yell. He had one final look at Cheggmar’s blank face, before the bucket dropped below the level of the cliff.

  “Kenim! What the fuck have you–” And Marius stopped his furious turn towards Brys, because Cheggmar was still talking.

  “A bunch of bloody nuns, brother, and she’s giving them the keys to absolution. There’s bones in those tubs, bones of martyrs, and every one worth a fortune to the right priest. One tub, that’s all they’re wanting. One tub, and we’d be rich.”

  “Who? Who, Cheggmar?”

  “Scorby City, you fool. They’re all going to die. They’ll pay–“

  “Cheggmar? Cheggmar!”

  But there was no reply, only the sound of Brys tugging her sword free of the wooden beam and cursing at the state of her blade. Marius stared past her at the edge of the cliff.

  “What a waste.”

  “What?” Brys looked up from her work. “Him?” She snorted. “I can find five more like him the next time I stop for a drink.” She slipped her sword back into its sheath. “I don’t tolerate disloyalty, Helles. You know that.”

  “You don’t tolerate denial much either, do you?”

  “Not when it’s bullshit.”

  “And how do you know it was? How do you know he wasn’t telling the truth?” Brys was already striding towards the second basket, and Marius trailed in her wake.

  “Because,” she flung over her shoulder, “he was the only one who deliberately chose a tub when we left the shore. Why would he need to pick and choose if all he’s doing is delivering them, hey?”

  “Maybe he wanted an even load. You can’t kill a man for that!”

  She reached the wheel and kicked out the chock, sending the second basket spiralling down out of sight. “First of all, he was already dead. Second of all, it’s not the first time someone’s tried to stiff me on a load; and third, I paid fifty riner to a carnie for that useless fuck so I can do to him whatever I want. That okay by you?”

  “I…” Marius stared at her for half a second, then dropped his gaze. “What are you carrying in those tubs anyway?”

  “Wigwams for a goose’s bridle.”

  “Very funny.”

  “I’m carrying the same thing I always carry, Marius. Goods, that’s all. I don’t ask and I don’t count my money until I’m far enough away not to be robbed straight back. You know how it works.”

  Marius did. He also knew that you never carried anything unless you knew exactly how dangerous it was to be caught with it, and who to bribe to get the hell away. For the first time he began to wonder just what was waiting for him at the bottom of the rope, and what he might have already sent Gerd into. He eyed the rope at the far end of the beam.

  “How do we get down, anyway?”

  “Well,” Brys smiled, and made herself comfortable on the grass. “As soon as you start turning that handle, you’ll find out, won’t you?”

  Marius pursed his lips, and bent to the task. Ten minutes later the basket crested the edge of the cliff. The tubman inside jumped lightly off and took Marius’ place at the wheel. Marius and Brys leaped into either side of the basket and grabbed the rope. The tubman took hold of the handle, and they began their descent.

  There are any number of perfectly innocent trains of thought that can be followed if you’re crushed into a confined space with a big-breasted woman in a pirate’s uniform. Unless you’re male. After five feet of the descent, Marius was focussing desperately on counting the number of strands that made up the rope in front of him.

  “It never ceases to amaze me,” Brys said, smirking, “how even being dead doesn’t stop a man rising to any occasion.”

  Marius decided not to answer. He also decided to stare past Brys at the cliff wall, and perhaps to try to do his twelve times tables backwards. Brys snickered and stretched, pressing her chest against him and pushing her left thigh forward.

  “Still,” she said, flexing her legs so that she slid slowly up and down the rope, and against Marius. “It must be frustrating, knowing that nobody can see us, and all you’d have to do is work out how to make Darrjy stop working his handle.”

  Marius forgot what came after seventy-two and had to start again. Brys leaned her face into his ear.

  “I like a man who knows how to work his handle,” she whispered, her breath hot and moist. Marius went from one hundred and thirty-two to one hundred and twenty-three, and silently swore.

  Brys chuckled and leaned back. “Stand fast, soldier.” She glanced down over the edge of the basket. “The top of the carving’s coming up. Not even you would be fast enough to finish before we hit the first windows.”

  “Thank you so much,” Marius managed to grumble between gritted teeth. Then he fell quiet as the rough cliff face gave way to carved and polished stone.

  The nuns of Tylytene had been in residence for nearly fifteen hundred years, and in that time had mastered innumerable arts. Their ropes were prized across the continent. Their wines were cellared in palaces and country estates. Several vintages formed the cornerstones of the most valuable cellars. Over the centuries they had become expert at farming, medicine, archery, calligraphy, distilling poisons, tantric sex, woodturning, and countless other skills vital to the preservation of their community in a hostile and money-driven world. Somewhere along the line, it became apparent that the best defence against the kind of people who view conclaves of peace-loving women as easy targets was a good defence. They moved their entire operation from the top of the cliff to inside it, learned stonemasonry, and conquered that, too.

  Many of the rocks that the water below crashed into were the detritus of their efforts, jagged-edged discards from the process of creating windows, hallways and stairs. Much of the silt that muddied that water was the result of work done by those nuns who put their newfound skills to use, roping themselves outwards to carve and smooth and polish designs of such beauty and magnificence that, even after half a dozen visits over twenty years, Marius was still brought to silence by coming face to cliff-face with them.

  Swirling scrolls flowed over the white stone, proclaiming, in dead languages, dominion over the earth of the hundred or more gods the nuns had aligned themselves to over the centuries. The existence of God or of gods might be a concept the nuns needed to ensure their sanctity, but not so much that they couldn’t be flexible when necessary. Birds light as gossamer flittered between them, carrying vines and ropes and laurels so real that Marius had to control the impulse to try and pluck a leaf from them as he passed. Gargoyles loomed out of crevices, vomiting water across sprites and mermaids and tentacles that writhed and wrapped themselves around famous saints and politicians, whose faces offered a parade of self-importance forgotten by time and the skilful hands of mocking artists. Windows appeared, disguised as eyes, open mouths, or the gaps between trees that arched and provided a canopy for Green Men and satyrs to couple in ways nuns shouldn’t even have known about, never mind recreate so accurately. Balistraria dotted the monumental frieze, disguised as the strings of a lute here, the folds of tree bark there. Marius caught occasional glimpses of wooden machinery through the gaps, waiting to hurl
rocks, or oil, or captured attackers, down upon anyone attempting to climb the rock face without permission. A trail of nymphs, staggered in a rough V-formation like sea birds across a granite sky, heralded the basket’s descent to a balcony finished in an ornately formal manner. The remaining tubmen waited there, with Gerd at their centre.

  “Did you see?” he began as soon as the basket had touched down. “The trees, and the wood nymphs, and… and…” Gerd waved his hands at the stonework disappearing above them, pointing out features distorted beyond recognition by the angle. “There was a bull over there, did you see it, and a boy jumping… he was upside down, between the horns… And flowers… And there was such a rude section, just above a dolphin and I think it was a kraken, they’re the ones with the tentacles on their faces, right?”

  Marius grinned. “Overcome your fear of heights, then?”

  “Well, I mean, I couldn’t stop looking. I just, I was looking, and I couldn’t stop. There were so many things, and then, well…” He shrugged. “Then I was here, and a lady was helping me out.” He smiled guiltily. “I think I missed some stuff.”

  Marius laughed. “Ready to go again, then?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Don’t worry. It strikes me the same way, every time.” He patted his friend on the shoulder. “Last time I was here one of the nuns was working on an illuminated parchment, showing the whole thing with annotations. Maybe you can see if she’s finished and ask her to talk you through it.”

  “You think?”

  “Oh, yes. I’ve always had a great fondness for nuns.”

  “And pirates,” a sardonic voice muttered behind him. Marius scowled.

  “Oh, yes. Brys is with me.”

  “Ah.” Gerd glanced the smuggler. “Did you, um. Were you the one who…” He mimicked a basket falling with his hands. Marius nodded.

  “Caught with his fingers in the tub.” At the same time, he projected: Figured out a secret too many.

  “Ah, not smart.” Too smart for his own good?

  “You know it.” You know it.

  Marius caught a fleeting image of Gerd nodding. “So what secret?”

  “I’ll tell you later. Let’s get inside and get away from observation, first.”

  A stronger nod: agreement.

  The tubs were in a pile in the middle of the balcony. Brys swished past them and whistled three short, sharp blasts into the arched entrance. In less than a minute a white-clad figure emerged from the gloom.

  “You didn’t need to do that,” the nun said. “We were waiting until you were all assembled.”

  “I’m a busy woman.”

  The nun glanced past Brys at Marius. “I’m sure you have a lot of things need doing. Please tell your men to deposit their goods in the usual place. Marius don Hellespont?”

  “Helles.”

  “Come with me, please.”

  She spun on her heel and disappeared back into the darkness. Marius and Gerd exchanged glances.

  “Okay, then.” He nodded to Brys.

  “I’d love to say it’s been fun…”

  “Oh, don’t worry yourself, lover.” She slapped the nearest tubman on the arm and started directing the collection of the barrels. “I’ll be around for a little while. We can still have some fun.” She glanced down at his groin and winked. “There’s bound to be a replacement basket or two in a storeroom somewhere.”

  Gerd groaned. “I never, ever, want to be you when I grow up.”

  “Who said he’s a grown-up?”

  “Can we go, please?” Marius stalked to the archway and beyond, leaving Gerd to scurry after him. Brys’ laughter followed them down the corridor.

  SIXTEEN

  There is a small but significant philosophical gap between a vow of poverty and living on the bones of your arse. For one thing, the first is voluntary, whilst poverty is usually the result of bad luck, bad parentage, or trusting the guy with the loud jerkin and a red-hot tip for tonight’s dogfight. You don’t have to be an idiot to live on the bones of your arse.

  If, however, you decide to remove yourself from the comforts of society in order to follow a set of rules laid down by some guy hallucinating in a desert halfway across the world a thousand years before you were even born, and who claims to have received these rules from a god or gods who expect you to follow them without question – well, good luck to you. And if the god or gods of your choice never once pop in just to make sure you’re actually doing what you’re told, and you haven’t nipped around the back of a metaphorical garden shed to have a quick drag of a philosophical pipe when the god of your choice wasn’t looking – well, you’re already a moron so why compound it by turning your back on a few creature comforts along the way?

  The nuns of Tylytene had been many things: supplicants, farmers, educators of young princes, whores, warriors, and occasionally even religious devotees. They had never been morons. They may have believed in a god, but it was always the god most likely to bring in the maximum number of offerings. There was nothing in their statutes that ordered them to bunk up in tiny cells without the comfort of a nice cosy bearskin over the floor. Marius had walked palace halls that were less handsomely appointed. Tapestries lined the walls at regular intervals, and thick rugs were spaced out between them so that very little of the cold rock was allowed to touch the feet of those who travelled the corridors. Fresh air wafted gently across their faces. Everything was bright and clean. Gerd stared around him in wonder.

  “Mirrors,” Marius muttered in answer to his unspoken question. “They dug shafts up to the surface and mounted mirrors down the inside. The sunlight is reflected and magnified down here.” He pointed to a hole above them, the size of a man’s head. “I wouldn’t recommend staring straight up.”

  Gerd did exactly that, and staggered.

  “Told you.”

  “What do they do when it rains?” Gerd rubbed his eyes and blinked.

  “Light torches, same as everyone else.”

  The nun stayed silent ahead of them, but Marius saw her shake her head.

  “And what about the air?”

  “Fans, mounted on the shafts. Last time I was here they were all linked to a set of wheels in the lower casements.”

  The nun bowed her head. “We take an hour’s constitutional each day, turning the wheel as a service to our sisters.”

  “But…” Gerd waved his hands ineffectually. “What if a shaft breaks down, or gets clogged up with something? Or an animal steps into one by accident? What if… what if someone pours something down one?”

  The nun glanced back over her shoulders, a look of wry superiority in her eyes. “We fix them.”

  Gerd sank back into silence.

  They reached a set of stairs and began to climb. Marius watched Gerd marvel at the paintings that hung on the rock walls, and the urns and vases that stood on plinths within smooth-hewn alcoves. He had forgotten, in the time they had been apart, that Gerd was still a simple country farmer at heart. Marius had shown him some sights four years ago, before they had gone their separate ways: the great Bone Cathedral at the heart of Scorby City; the docks of Borgho City; the gambling houses of the Merchant Kings. But once they had separated, with all the world and time immemorial at his behest, Gerd had retreated to his mountain farm and his dying Granny. Marius had trod roads high and low across the continent since turning his back on his family, had seen sights that most men would not believe, never mind experience. It was easy to forget that for most people, the world ended less than a day’s walk from their own hearth. An art gallery in a cave thirty feet below the surface of the earth was nothing new to Marius. In fact, it wasn’t even the best he’d seen. To Gerd, though, it would be some sort of miracle. Marius was gratified. He wasn’t sure what was coming, but he was pretty certain none of it was good. Let the boy lift his heart while he could.

  They climbed six flights until Marius guessed they were near the very top of the nunnery, perhaps no more than twenty or thirty feet below the surface of the
world. The light seemed brighter here, less diffuse, as if coming more directly from the sun without quite so much assistance from mirrors. Marius was sure it was a trick of perception, but nevertheless he sensed the change in atmosphere and suddenly felt more exposed because of it. He was becoming too used to being underground, he thought with a shiver. He was coming to think that having earth above him was a type of protection, and he didn’t like that realisation.

  They reached an antechamber and the nun stopped.

  “Please wait here,” she said, and turned away. Gerd looked at Marius in sudden panic.

  “Wait,” he said. “You’ve not told us why we’re here.”

  “The young master knows,” she replied, and nodded to Marius. Gerd looked between them.

  “Young master?” he said. “He’s twice your age!”

  “I wouldn’t say that.” Marius straightened his back, and winked at the nun as lasciviously as he could manage. She gave him a blank look and left. Gerd turned on him as soon as she was through the door.

  “What did she mean, ‘young master’? And what are we here for anyway?”

  Marius ignored him and looked about the room. It was small, with little more than two chairs and a side table to the right of a door across from the entrance corridor. A balistraria dominated the wall to their left, its top point higher than a man, its bottom disappearing past the floor to the level below, and with a cross-slit wide enough that Marius could have stretched his arms out and fitted comfortably inside its reach. Someone, long ago, had carved around it in the shape of a tree, so that the window formed the bole and main cross branch. Corpses hung from the branches: soldiers wearing a hundred different coats of arms, some so old their lines were almost worn smooth. Through the window Marius could make out nothing but clear blue sky, giving the tree a glowing aspect at odds with its gruesome countenance.

  “Gods, that’s cheery,” Gerd said, taking a step back towards the safety of the interior wall.

  Marius shrugged. “As warnings go, it’s all very unsubtle. Wages of sin surrounding a nice open sky. I’m guessing they send very junior nuns up here to be lectured by very crusty old ones. Anyone with any sense in them isn’t going to be scared off by that.”