The town seemed deserted, and none of the traders Arturus was looking for had their wares on display.
They must either be out or sleeping. It’s probably not morning yet.
He caught glimpses of some of the slumbering Harpsborough people through the cracks around their door blankets. Since light was a constant in the chamber, there was no mandated night or day, and people pretty much slept when they felt like it. Galen had told him that villagers tended to accidentally synchronize their sleep patterns.
“Be wary of the man who walks during the night in a good city,” Galen had said, “and seek him out in an evil one.”
Like I’d even get a chance to see another city.
Arturus spotted one man lying up against the Fore, his open eyes locked into a thousand mile stare.
“Excuse me, sir,” Arturus asked him quietly so as to avoid waking anyone who might be sleeping inside the building, “is Massan in. . .do you know? I was looking for some shotgun shells. . .”
The man wasn’t answering, and Arturus noticed that his eyes were so bloodshot that there wasn’t any white around their irises.
Catatonic.
Galen had taught him that this happened to some people. They would become so depressed that they ceased to respond to anyone or anything. The villagers called it the stilling sickness. Galen had even related to him horror stories where such men were eviscerated by demons without even blinking. The stilling was a village thing, Arturus guessed. He had certainly never felt sad enough that he could have his bowels spilled without fighting back.
Arturus waved his hands in front of the man to make sure.
Yeah, he’s gone alright.
Arturus remembered him vaguely. Galen had traded something to him for some wooden cups a few years back.
Arturus didn’t remember him acting any differently than the other people here, which he found disconcerting.
What if this happens to Alice?
She would still be inside her hovel, he figured. He stopped to look at it on his way to Massan’s tent. The cloth that covered the building’s ceiling was blue and worn, and she hadn’t beaten the dust out of it in some time. She’d hung an odd ornament from the stick archway which supported her door blanket. It looked like a spider web made of yarn, surrounded by a wooden circle. Caught within its strands were a few pebbles instead of people. She was probably inside that hovel, sleeping. He imagined her curled up on her side, her eyes closed.
Maybe someone else will tell her that I was here by myself. That I didn’t need Galen or Rick or anybody.
He spotted Massan’s tent and moved on towards it.
Or maybe she’ll come out while I’m trading.
That thought excited him. He would look very grown up, he decided, haggling for shotgun shells all on his own.
“Oh, I’m just picking up some shells,” he might tell her nonchalantly. “We’ve been running a bit low lately.”
And then they would talk about something different entirely, and she would laugh at his jokes.
Arturus was startled by a noise from above him. When he looked up he saw a man standing on one of the Fore’s third floor balconies.
It’s Michael Baker. He’s up early.
The First Citizen and leader of Harpsborough gave Arturus a slight nod and a smile before disappearing back into the Fore.
If he’s awake, surely that must mean others will be getting up soon.
Arturus’ pack seemed to get heavier as he came up to Massan’s tent-house. He slapped his hands a few times against the door blanket which had been made out of dyitzu hide. Galen would have approved of the accoutrement. The man liked to make things out of the environment around him. He said everything else was cheating, since you could never be sure you could replace it.
Arturus noticed that his hands were shaking.
Why am I so nervous? Either I get the trades right, or I don’t.
“Who is it?” a woman’s voice answered.
That would be Kara, Arturus decided. She had been sleeping with Massan for a while now. Arturus had been a little surprised at the matchup since Massan seemed so ugly. Galen had told him that humor and riches could go a long way.
“Arturus, ma’am,” he responded, speaking loudly enough to be heard through the door blanket, but softly enough—he hoped—to avoid waking any neighbors. “Is Massan here?”
“He went out to the river to get some water. He’ll be back in just a minute.”
“No problem. I’ll try and meet him by the guards.”
First Citizen Michael Baker eased himself down onto the Persian cushions which guarded his body from the brutal rigidity of his stone chair. After settling himself, he took a sip of his bloodwater. Across the Fore’s parlor room was his sycophant, Davel Mancini, the brewer of the sharp, sweet concoction which he drank.
“Anybody awake out there?” the Brewer asked.
“Just a hermit trader. The village will be up soon, though.”
The pair sat together in the Fore’s parlor, located on the third story next to Michael’s own sleeping chambers. The lavishly decorated room held more wealth than all of the rest of Harpsborough combined. The stone couch and two chairs which furnished the room were so finely sculpted that the people of Harpsborough believed it had been Hell’s architect, not man, who had chiseled them. Each of the stone pieces was covered over in an assortment of earthen hued blankets and pillows. A set of shelves, full of rare and ancient guns, wine bottles and devil hides, adorned the wall across from Michael along with a full length mirror and a running water clock.
Michael regarded the ruby red bloodwater through his crystal glass. “Mancini, this is certainly smooth. Tart in a good way. The aftertaste. . .has something. . . odd. Sinfruit? You’d be able to trade this to the Pole.”
“I might, when this famine passes,” Mancini said after drinking from his own glass. “Which hermit is about?”
“Rick and Galen’s boy.”
Mancini stood up and walked across the dyitzu skin which carpeted the floor.
The room was illuminated by a pair of three foot tall stone spheres which could be covered by a varying number of blankets in order to control the level of light in the room. At the moment, a few thick blankets covered them to give the parlor a soft, homely glow. Mancini, who had despised light for as long as Michael had known him, added another pair of blankets for good measure.
Michael Baker stared at the draped spherical stones until the Brewer interrupted his thoughts.
“Hunters came home empty handed last night,” Mancini said, sitting back down on the couch across from Michael.
Michael let his gaze return to one of the orbs. “Second night in a row. Not sure what it means.”
“Maybe it means we should tell Aaron and his hunters to hunt up the Thames,” Mancini said, “and tell Galen and Rick to hunt somewhere else.”
“They’ve always hunted there.”
“Hidalgo always hunted on the far side of the Kingsriver, and we demanded he hunt farther out.”
Michael shook his head. “Well, that’s different.”
“Oh?”
“There’s actually dyitzu on the Kingsriver.”
Mancini paused before the parlor room’s mirror long enough to pull a strand of his thick black hair behind his ear. “Galen and Rick never seem to be wanting.”
“They’re just one family. One devil for them is enough for a month. We’d go through that in half a day. Maybe Aaron’s right. Maybe Hell is emptying out. Maybe we really should start sharing the Fore’s food.”
“Would have never happened when you were Lead Hunter, Mike. Let ‘em starve.”
Michael’s gaze snapped back to Mancini. The after image of the orb blocked out the Brewer’s face. He blinked a few times until he could see the man, but Mancini’s expression revealed nothing.
Michael stood up from his chair, suddenly restless, and wandered across the carpets. He pushed through the door tapestry, making his way back onto the third floo
r balcony. He turned to see Mancini following, protecting his glass of bloodwater from the curtain with his forearm.
Michael Baker looked down from the balcony onto his sleeping city.
“What would Aaron know anyway?” Mancini asked.
“Nothing, but it doesn’t matter. The hunters listen to him.”
“They blame you for it, though, just because you’re up here safe with us.”
“I served my time,” Michael said. “Has Aaron looked dead into the eyes of a Minotaur? Has he lain for twenty nights and twenty days upon the banks of Lethe, nursing the wounds made by its horns? I built bonds of blood with many of those hunters out there. I’m the one who trained Aaron. What’s he done? Well, he’s led the hunters through their leanest years yet and made sure there are fewer dyitzu month after month.”
Mancini sipped his bloodwater thoughtfully. “They’ve forgotten you, Mike.”
“Well, of course they have,” Michael said. “Barely any of the hunters I used to lead are even alive anymore, and the rest of them have spent more time under him now than me.”
“He says you’re causing the problems. He says it’s your restriction on how far they can go out that’s starving Harpsborough. He even says that, if it were not for your direct orders, he might be willing to enter the Carrion to get food.”
Michael gave a short laugh. “The fool would never do such a thing. The Carrion would eat him alive and he knows it.”
“Perhaps that is in his mind, but that is not what’s in his mouth.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“You know that the hunters gamble right by my room’s walls. I can’t help but hear quite a bit.”
Michael took a large swallow of the bloodwater, trying to enjoy the taste and the burn he felt in his throat. “I wish he would go into the Carrion and get himself killed.”
“Strip him of his Citizenship. No other hunter has a place in here.”
Michael glanced over at the church. “That would be foolish. I hope this famine passes quickly.”
Davel Mancini smiled wryly. “Doesn’t matter to us. We don’t have to worry about going hungry.”
“Not yet. We may have to open up our stores, though. They’re starving.”
“At least consider sending our men up the Thames before we do something as drastic as that. Or better yet, let hunger take a few of them. That will balance everything out.”
“We can’t just let them die.”
“Sooner or later, Mike, you’re going to have to decide which side you’re on.”
For a moment, when he turned to Davel Mancini, he got a queer feeling about the Brewer. If Aaron were to perform a coup d’état, he wondered, how long would it be before Mancini managed to worm his way into the hunter’s good graces.
The feeling lasted for only a moment. It had been Mancini, whom many expected to be the most stolid against Michael, who had grudgingly admitted the new First Citizen’s merit. It had been Mancini who was the first to be brave enough to drop his bias and say that Michael would be a better leader than the man who’d lain dead at his feet.
“You’re a good friend, Davel,” Michael told him.
“And you’re a good leader.”
Arturus rubbed absently at his sore shoulder and thought about drifting off to sleep for a minute—but as soon as he considered closing his eyes, he heard the guards outside speaking. He perked up a bit when he recognized Massan’s voice.
A moment later the trader came into the chamber.
Massan was a dark man of Middle-Eastern heritage. His hair and eyes were black, and his eyebrows, thick as they were, were actually thicker where they formed a unibrow over the bridge of his nose. Massan hoisted his water skin over one shoulder as he entered the chamber. Arturus could hear it sloshing. The skin was still wet from being filled in the river, and Massan left a small trail of water dripping behind him as he walked. Arturus recognized the skin, as it had been made by Galen and traded to the man for ammunition a few years ago. Galen had taught Arturus how to make such a skin from a dyitzu’s hide and bladder.
“Jesus was a carpenter,” Galen had told him then, “but there is not much wood in Hell. Better to be a mason or a tanner, if you were to pick.”
Arturus didn’t know too much about Jesus. Galen had told him it would have been different if he had been born back in the old world. He would know all about Jesus, and perhaps have had the right to hate him or love him.
“You cannot judge what you do not know,” Galen had told him.
I hope he’s safe.
Massan looked up and noticed Arturus as he began to head towards his tent.
“Lad!” Massan greeted him, leaning to one side so he could look at Arturus’ pack. “Where are your parents? You stuff ‘em in there?”
“They’re not here,” Arturus said, standing up.
“Surely you’re no runaway?” Massan asked incredulously.
“No,” Arturus said with a laugh, “I didn’t run away. Galen’s still out and Rick wanted to spend the day hunting, so I thought I’d come by and do some trading for them.”
“Well, did you now?” Massan asked, flashing his crooked teeth with a smile. “What are you looking for?”
“Shells, 12 gauge. Some buck and ball if you’ve got any. And a barrel.”
“Barrel for what?”
Arturus leaned in close, close enough that he could smell the man’s sweat. They had been speaking softly already to be considerate to the sleeping villagers, but Arturus lowered his voice even further so that none could overhear.
“For an AR-15,” he said.
“An AR-15?” Massan replied in kind. “That’s a rare one. Don’t see much ammunition for those about.”
“Yeah,” Arturus agreed.
“Well, come on by my tent, boy,” the trader said in a normal voice. “I’ll see what I can dig up.”
Massan’s water skin landed next to Kara, causing her to turn over and cover her head with a blanket. The trader began rummaging through the pile of packs where he kept his goods. Arturus glanced outside of Massan’s door blanket and noticed that the nearby neighbors were stirring, perhaps awakened by the noise.
“Now why in the name of Christ Almighty do you want to get an AR-15 barrel?” Massan asked, his voice quiet once again.
“I don’t know, maybe Galen found a stash of .223 while he was out on his last hunt.” Arturus kept his voice fairly quiet.
“Could be. . . or he could have killed an Infidel Friend.”
Arturus nodded slowly. If Galen had killed one of their kind, the others would surely want retribution. He felt his heart quicken, and he wished even more fervently that Galen would come home soon.
Arturus had never seen an Infidel Friend. To think of it, he didn’t imagine that many in Harpsborough had either. Still, the Infidel’s men were reputed to be an evil force, both deadly and amoral. And they used 5.56 millimeter rounds, the legends said.
You cannot judge what you do not know.
Massan’s unibrow became even more pronounced as it furrowed. The man rummaged more ferociously through his packs. Arturus leaned over to look at what they contained.
There were a few shirts in there, and a wine bottle, the cork still wrapped. He also saw a collection of lighters, each plastic and painted with a unique design. There was a skull, too. Arturus breathed in when he saw it, and he moved a little closer.
“Hey!” Massan said suddenly, hiding the skull beneath the shirts. “Stay back.”
“Sorry, sir.”
The trader carefully held up the side of his pack, keeping Arturus from seeing his wares while he continued his search.
I wonder what that skull was from? Why wouldn’t he want me to see it? Maybe he could have sold it to me.
Not looking up, Massan passed Arturus a box of 12 gauge shotgun shells. After a few moments, he produced a second box.
“Twelve gauge and slugs. That going to be enough shells?” Massan asked, his accent for some reason becoming m
ore pronounced as he continued to shift through his things.
“Should be fine, sir.”
Arturus opened the boxes. The boxes themselves were a bit banged up but the shells looked fine.
“Ah, what have we here?” Massan marveled as he pulled out a gun barrel from near the bottom of the stash. “Galen will be proud of you, son.”
He has one!
“Where did you find it?”
“You may recall, a few years ago, that I got lost up near Macon’s Bend. I found the barrel with an M-16, actually. The gun was hopelessly damaged, but I took the barrel just in case. I thought I might have to trade it to get someone to take me back to Harpsborough.”
“You would have traded it to an Infidel Friend?”
“Son, I would have traded it to the Devil himself if he’d take me home.” He looked past Arturus to the sleeping Kara. “You’d never know how a place you hate can mean so much to you, till it’s gone.”
Arturus had never been far from home.
Would I miss it?
“So, what have you got to trade?” Massan asked, suddenly all business.
“For the shells I was thinking a few pounds of dyitzu meat and some devilwheat.”
“How about five pounds per box? It’s been a bit rough finding shells lately. You can keep your devilwheat, we’ve enough of it here. Your friend Julian trades tons of that stuff to us.”
“Five pounds! Galen never traded you more than one for shells.”
“I charge everyone the same. I’ve made Galen pay that much in my day, when shells were scarce.”
But shells aren’t scarce right now, dyitzu are. I’m going to be cheated.
Galen had given him advice about trading. He had said that the truth was always best, so long as you only spoke part of it.
“Amazing that you are low on shells since there’s hardly been any dyitzu to shoot at lately,” Arturus said. “Look, I’m not stupid. I know that you are going to end up cheating me, and I’m okay with that. But if you take advantage of me now, they won’t send me back here. You’ll stuck driving hard bargains with Galen and Rick. But if you give me a good deal, then they will send me back, and you can fleece more off of me in the future.”
Even Hell Has Knights (Hellsong) Page 3
