The Blood of Whisperers

by Devin Madson

  Daylight faded fast. The riders stopped to strike their lanterns, all except Ire, who had broken his, and Hope, who couldn’t hold onto one and keep control of his skittish horse. The beast had been giving him trouble all day, but the Vice was yet to realise my presence was the cause.

  The smell came, creeping upon the nose like an unpleasant ambush. It smelt of rotting vegetation and stagnant water, with overtones of neglected corpse.

  ‘Ah yes,’ Conceit said, leaning back in his saddle, his lantern hooked onto one of his fingers. ‘The smell. Almost, one comes to miss it.’

  ‘Only because it smells like the hovel you were born in,’ Ire snapped. ‘Go on, get moving. If those Pikes don’t have food waiting they can kiss goodbye to their fingers. Move on, move on.’

  Conceit headed the convoy as we picked our way across sodden ground beneath the cottonwood canopy. Occasionally, there would be a shout of: ‘Kasu!’, ‘More kasu!’, or ‘Shivatsan kasu!’ as the horses ahead sloshed into pools of mud. The warning ran back along the line, but more often than not, the mud could not be avoided, and Hope urged his horse on anyway, its step kicking the stinking ooze onto our legs.

  Our passage slowed the deeper we travelled into the marsh. Conceit was hunting for driest paths amid the stagnant water, but without the sun the only light in the bog emanated from our lanterns – a line of fireflies in the foetid air.

  ‘Stop!’

  The voice came from above. At the head of the procession, the shifting lantern that was Conceit, halted. ‘Well look at that,’ he called back, his voice fading over the distance. ‘The birds are talking to me.’

  ‘Well this bird has an arrow aimed right at your head and I don’t see your twin around to save you.’

  ‘What sort of greeting is that?’

  ‘A friendly one. You go no further without the password.’

  Hope chuckled beneath his breath, adjusting his grip on the reins.

  ‘I know what it is,’ Ire shouted. ‘All Pikes have small cocks.’

  The Vices laughed, one of them so loud it startled a bird in a nearby tree, its wings batting the air as it took flight.

  ‘Wrong,’ the voice from the trees called back. ‘You freaks can stay out here.’

  ‘Malice is expecting us.’

  The words were spoken quietly, but fear came with the name, making the swamp itself feel chilly. Hope tensed. The Vices seemed hardly to breathe.

  The sentry grunted. ‘Go on then,’ he said. ‘Next time try not to sound like a stampede.’

  They breathed again. Conceit kissed his fingers to the invisible man and set his horse walking. The convoy moved on.

  Sights and sounds emerged from the dark swamp. First came the distant flicker of firelight. Bright lanterns hung in the air like hovering orbs, seeming to dance amid the trees. Squealing. Laughter. Someone was singing. Like a town, the swamp was full of souls, its weight crushing. Boredom, lust, anger, fear, excitement – every emotion so different, so strong, squeezing me tight. It was like a bright play, a sea of colours and smells and sounds that only I could sense.

  Feeling sick, I held an arm tight across my stomach, the other loosely gripping the back of Hope’s cloak. I wanted him to stop, but no words would come.

  An island of fen-like grass rose out of the mire, and there the camp began. Before the first line of tents a man was waiting. A deep hood hid most of his face, but he nodded to each of the Vices as they passed, speaking in a low rumbling voice. ‘The Master frees you,’ he said to the Vice in front of us. The man nodded back and moved on into the busy, flickering lights of the camp. Hope pulled gently on the reins, stopping his horse as though loath to go further.

  ‘Is that the boy?’ the man said, only his chin visible beneath the shadow of his hood.

  ‘Yes. He doesn’t talk.’

  This new Vice grunted. ‘The Master doesn’t want him paraded through the camp for the Pikes to stare at. Take him around the back.’

  ‘Are the other Pikes back yet? Monarch and the others?’

  ‘No. But I wish he would hurry. They’re rowdy without him.’

  Hope hesitated as though waiting for something, but the man said nothing more. The rider behind us brushed past. ‘The Master frees you,’ the black-clad man said to him.

  Hope turned his horse, yanking the reins hard. Leaving the others behind, he set off around the edge of the camp, between the last line of tents and a nest of bristly swamp willows. For the most part the tents were deserted. The Pikes were gathered around the central fires, but here the smell of food, spilt wine and vomit began to battle the swamp-stench for dominance. A pair of half-dressed whores ran across our path, dirt smeared on their swollen breasts. They stopped at the sight of us and giggled. Hope looked away, his discomfort close.

  ‘What? Haven’t you seen a woman before?’ one of them jeered, an ugly look on her face.

  When Hope didn’t reply she whipped up her skirt, scattered firelight falling on the smooth skin between her legs. It was marked with henna, the bold design of arrows and barbs challenging all who looked upon it. The pattern was a sign of ownership, each one specific to a whoremaster. I was familiar with a few in Chiltae, but this one was strange and brutish.

  With a harsh laugh she dropped her skirts, and gripping her companion’s arm, dashed into the trees. Hope kept his eyes averted from her retreating figure, his mortification prickly.

  He did not speak, just gripped the reins tighter.

  At the far end of the camp stood a brightly lit pavilion, light spilling out through a narrow crack in the fabric. It was on a patch of high ground, a little away from the other tents as though it wished to be separate.

  Hope reined in his horse before the entrance and waited for me to dismount before following, throwing the reins over a wooden stake.

  ‘Master?’ Hope leaned toward the silk, its intricate pattern glowing from the inside out – bright in green and yellow and red. ‘Endymion is here.’

  ‘Bring him in.’

  Hope lifted the tent flap for me to enter, and I went before him into a lantern-lit space, cluttered and homey. The uneven ground was covered in thick reed matting edged in crimson and dark blue, and a pair of rolled sleeping mats leant drunkenly against one another in the corner. Half a dozen travelling chests lined one side of the pavilion, while from its centre post hung a knot of coloured sashes, one in priest’s white, one in yellow, black, green and purple. It wasn’t easy to have sashes made outside your station, especially the very expensive purple of the nobleman, but this man had one. He also had a low table in the tent, as though it had been a travelling house. A wooden Errant board sat on it, the pieces dotted across its field. I had never taken much interest the game, but Jian had always called it the game of great men.

  A man sat cross-legged at the table. He tilted his head a little to the side, fine, noble features faintly smiling.

  Hope bowed low, prostrating himself upon the matting. ‘Master,’ he said. ‘We have brought the boy, but he does not speak.’

  The man curled the tip of a long black ponytail around his finger, the hair tied back with what looked to be a string of finger bones. ‘Does not speak?’ he said. ‘That is very interesting, yes? Not a word?’

  ‘Not since we found him, Master.’

  ‘I see. Do come in, Endymion. Have a seat. You too, Hope. There is wine. It is not the best, but one must make do when one is travelling, yes?’

  ‘Master, if I may,’ Hope began. ‘My horse–’

  ‘Have you been released?’

  ‘No, Master.’

  ‘Then I asked you to sit down, yes?’

  ‘Yes, Master.’

  ‘Then sit down.’

  Hope bent at the knees so fast I was sure I heard them snap. There was fear there, fear of this placid man, but also admiration, loyalty and love, the mixture so complicated that
I could feel nothing at all from the man he called Master.

  Shifting an Errant piece on the board, the man said: ‘Like you, I have another name, but you may call me Malice. I assume you know Hope, yes? He is one of my Vices.’

  He looked me over as he spoke, examining every one of my features in turn. Whether what he saw satisfied him I could not tell, but he held his hand out across the table. ‘Give me your hand, Endymion.’

  I had no doubt that this man, Malice, knew what I was, but I lifted my right hand. He shook his head. ‘That is not the hand I meant. Your left hand, yes?’

  Not immediately complying, I pushed my Empathy out toward him again. There was nothing. The man smiled, waiting. I looked at his hand. Every time I had touched skin since the change, connection had come unbidden. I couldn’t control it. Hope had grown used to these strange moments, but this man was different. I was not sure I could trust him.

  ‘Your hand.’

  I held it out, flinching as Malice took it in a tight grip.

  Nothing happened.

  There was no connection, no whispers in my head, nothing at all. I let him turn my hand over and push back the sleeve, revealing my silk wristband.

  ‘That is a sad sight to see,’ he said. ‘Are you so ashamed of what is under there? Hope, there is a pair of scissors in the box. Bring them, yes?’

  ‘Yes, Master.’

  I couldn’t meet Malice’s gaze and stared instead at our joined hands, the colour of our skin so alike we might have been the continuation of one another.

  When Hope returned he proffered the scissors, but Malice shook his head. ‘Cut it.’

  The Vice did so, sliding cold metal under the silk. With a snip, the silk band fell away, curling up on the table.

  ‘Little did I think to see that mark again,’ Malice said. ‘Did you show this to Darius Laroth?’

  That name. My fingers gripped the edge of the table.

  Malice’s brows went up. ‘Angry? Let me assure you that you are not the only one angry with him, yes? I wish you could tell me what he said to you.’

  Silence.

  He sighed. ‘There is time. The silence won’t last forever, and until it passes I am sure you have much to think about. Perhaps you are not aware of the connection. You see, I have known Darius Laroth for a long time. You could say we were as brothers, yes?’

  I will find him and I will teach him pain.

  Malice touched his cheek with his forefinger, and I knew he was looking at my brand. ‘You will find yourself at home here, I think. In more ways than one.’ He drew back his own sleeve then, his left hand palm up on the table. Malice wore no band. He bore the faded brown birthmark with pride. Three horizontal lines crossed by a diagonal.

  He was an Empath.

  I had travelled all my life. I had met hundreds, even thousands of people, from beggars to lords, but never had I thought to find another just like me.

  ‘They designed the Traitor’s Mark for us a long time ago, but they have since forgotten why.’ Malice pulled his hand away, letting his sleeve fall. ‘Hope will look after you, Endymion. You need food and water and rest, yes? These things are easily provided.’

  I got unsteadily to my feet, still staring down at the place on the table where his birthmark had been. Hope was at my side. He meant to guide me out, but I could not move. This man knew what it was like as no one else ever had.

  Malice smiled. ‘I’ll bid you a good night, Endymion,’ he said. ‘And welcome home, yes?’

  Chapter 9

  I had been born in this palace. Now I was going to die here too, in a wretched hole far from my father’s throne.

  It was cold. Darius had taken the cloak. I ought to have kept it, but what difference would it make if I died of cold or hunger? Either way, I would not get out of here alive.

  My stomach rumbled. Despite the foul stench I could almost smell the millet porridge the Pikes made every morning. All too easily could I imagine squashing the grains between my teeth and digging through the golden sea in search of each individual bean, being sure to leave one for the very last spoonful. Monarch always grumbled at such simple fare. There had been a time when any food was his for the asking, when his name had meant something.

  When I closed my eyes I could feel him standing close to me, could feel his breath on my skin and his hand on my cheek. Over and over I had tried to imagine that kiss, but the cold was invasive, my parched lips and grumbling stomach demanding in their insistence. They broke my fantasy, leaving only hideous reality in their wake.

  There was always the Tishwa. Darius had believed my lies, but the guards had been too cocksure, too disdainful of this boy to do more than throw me in a cell. They might have found the vials later, but by then it was too late.

  Standing in the darkest corner I had slid them free of my wristband and tested their strength. The glass was thick and the wax seal tight, yet a deep breath shuddered out of my lungs. I had pulled out the waistband of my breeches, and with a hand between my legs, had pushed first one vial and then the next into the space only a man could violate.

  In the chill of the Pit, I tensed. The vials were still there, buried inside me. More than once I had considered freeing myself from the coming hell, but I was not ready to die. I wanted Kin to drink them. I wanted to see him claw at his throat while the poison crushed the last breath from his lungs.

  The grinding of the grate sounded overhead and the torches flared. In the light, a figure descended the tall ladder, followed by another – more visitors to my little slice of hell. The first halted at the bottom, peering into the darkness as Darius had done. With him lit from behind I could see no face, but the swish of a skirt made his noble robe apparent. Darius’s councillor.

  I fingered the needle still caught in my sleeve as the councillor came across the floor. His companion joined him, a plainly dressed man somewhere between a soldier and a commoner.

  ‘Regent, Regent,’ the councillor said, his singsong voice echoing. ‘What a way to end a very promising career. Stuck in the Pit, the last home of so many would-be rebels and assassins.’

  I said nothing, just watched his face emerge from the darkness. He was much older than Darius, and where Darius was obscenely beautiful, this man’s features had a slightly crumpled look as though he was already beginning to dry out.

  ‘Not feeling very chatty?’ he said. ‘Perhaps if I introduce myself. My name is Councillor Ahmet, and this fine young man–’ the other man leered ‘–is Praetor. As I understand it, the closest thing he has to a virtue is his skill with a knife.’

  When I said nothing the councillor sighed theatrically. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Praetor?’

  ‘Yes, Excellency?’ the man replied, still grinning from behind his patchy whiskers. It looked as though he had been handsome once, lines of youthful beauty still visible on his face.

  ‘Check he still has his tongue.’

  Praetor stepped forward. Every instinct screamed at me to run, but I couldn’t let them get to me, couldn’t let them win. I clamped my teeth shut and proudly lifted my chin. The man crouched in front of me. He grinned, his even teeth ground flat. The councillor moved, and as I glanced up, Praetor gripped my chin. He smacked my head into the wall and pain burst through my skull. Callused fingers prised apart my lips, pinching my tongue. His fingers tasted tinny, covered in dirt from gods knew where. I fought the cry that leapt up my throat. I tried to breathe steadily, to take my thoughts somewhere else until it was over, but the jolt of the pain ceasing was worse than its beginning.

  Praetor sat back.

  ‘It seems that you are capable of talking,’ the councillor said. ‘So let me explain how this is going to work. I want information and you are going to give it to me, or Praetor here will slowly slice the flesh from your bones. We will keep you alive for however long this takes, but because I am a kind man, I will give you the chanc
e to avoid excruciating agony and tell me what I want to know.

  ‘Where is the Hian Crown?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Why should I? I’m stuck down here.’

  ‘Oh, a clever one. Very well, where is Monarch?’

  ‘I don’t know that either. He moves around, you know, on legs.’

  The councillor nodded. Praetor gripped the neck of my tunic, and tore it along the shoulder seam. The rip was loud in my ear; the fabric left dangling like a flap of skin. I felt hot, sick. This thin layer of cloth was all that stood between me and debilitating womanhood.

  ‘Let’s try this again,’ the councillor said. ‘We wouldn’t want to have to spoil that pretty face. Who is Monarch? He has another name?’

  ‘I don’t know, how about Emperor?’ I said.

  He nodded and Praetor took the already torn fabric in his hand and yanked. The tunic tore all the way down. Freezing air caressed my stomach.

  ‘I’ll ask you one more question,’ the councillor said. ‘Before we start them over again. What is Monarch planning?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  The councillor smiled and nodded. This time Praetor’s fingers slid beneath my bind. The fabric was strong and did not tear, but the laces loosened. The bind slipped. My breasts ached at the sudden release of pressure, and I covered them with my hands.

  Praetor stared, first at my chest and then at his fingers as though they had performed a feat of magic. The councillor’s smile widened. ‘A girl,’ he said. ‘The great rebel captain is a girl. That is a joke our beloved emperor is unlikely to appreciate.’ He nodded, a sharp little movement I was fast coming to hate. Praetor’s fingers closed around my wrists, prising them from my chest.

  ‘Perhaps we could try this again,’ the councillor said. ‘Where is the Hian Crown?’

  ‘I don’t know!’

  Stale breath blew into my face. The man was still grinning.

  ‘Where is the Hian Crown?’

  I stopped fighting. Praetor lifted my hands away from my body, and in the instant he stood appreciating the sight, I slammed my foot into his shin. Ripping from his slackened hold, I scrambled across the damp floor. Fingers caught in my hair, yanking me back.