by Jen Williams
‘Thank you kindly, milord. Enjoy the games!’
The boy sped off towards some other stragglers and Frith took a cautious sip from the skin. Surprisingly, it did appear to be lemon-water, and it calmed his throat a little. Pushing aside his doubts, he walked through the arch and into the Storm Gates, where he bought a ticket and made his way towards a relatively quiet area. Inside, the place was circular, with an enormous sand-covered arena in the centre, surrounded by rings and rings of stone benches, reaching up almost to the tops of the walls. Outside in the city the sound was softened by the thick stone walls, but inside the roaring of the crowd was deafening. Frith moved down the rows, passing men and women and children with their eyes fixed on the pit below, impatiently peering round him as he squeezed past. Most of them were shouting at the distant figures, and quite a few of them were chewing on snacks very similar to those sold by the boy with the octopus tattoo. Frith saw tankards of beer and ale everywhere, as well as countless skins of wine, and he wondered exactly how much vomit was cleared up at the end of every day’s entertainments.
He took his seat and peered down at the arena below. Distantly, he was aware that he was avoiding his true purpose, but it was easier to pass this off as research. I need to know exactly what goes on here, he told himself. If I am to do this, I must do it right.
In the arena below, three figures were moving about, circling the pit. One, a man with skin the colour of red clay and a series of pale, white scars across his back and chest, was walking around with confidence, shaking his fists at the crowd and bellowing something Frith couldn’t make out over the roar. This, evidently, was one of the champions of the Storm Gates; a convict who had survived so many trials he had now become a hero. He had been rewarded with a pair of small knives which he wore at his belt. They were polished to a high shine, and were of reasonable quality. The other two were much less confident. An older, wiry-looking woman with long grey hair falling loose down her back edged around the pit, trying to see all around her at once, while the other, a young man with a patchy beard and only a stained loincloth to his name, was visibly shaking. The two newcomers had been given wooden clubs. Frith watched closely. Were they both to fight the big man with the scars? He supposed that they might have a chance, if they could stay out of range of his knives and get a few lucky blows to his head.
There was a flat clacking sound, and part of the arena wall folded away, revealing a long dark tunnel. Instantly, the roar of the crowd grew until it was a tide of relentless noise.
Something scuttled out of the tunnel, and Frith felt all the hairs on his body trying to stand on end. It was a huge scorpion, easily as big as a small horse. It was brown, the colour of old tea, with long flat plates running across its back that shone wetly. Its tail, with its lethal stinging barb, flexed over its back experimentally, while its front pincers opened and closed.
The young man and the woman immediately retreated, flinging themselves back to the furthest part of the arena, the young man openly sobbing. Frith wondered what they had done to end up in such a place. The man with the knives and the scars advanced, actually running at the scorpion and shouting, and to Frith’s surprise the creature scuttled away from him, apparently taking fright at this sudden movement.
The crowd went crazy, cheering his bravado, but Frith soon saw that it was more than that. The scorpion’s confusion took it closer to the other two prisoners, and it circled towards them instead, the barbed tail flexing. The woman with the long hair decided to make a run for it, even dropping her club in her desperation to get away, and the scorpion was on her in moments. Frith heard her scream quite clearly over the cacophony as she was lost under the creature’s scrabbling legs. It trod her to the ground easily enough, and then the thing dragged her back up with its pincers. The serrated claws flexed once, twice, almost convulsively, and the woman fell back to the ground in ragged chunks.
‘Where would they even find such a thing?’ he muttered to himself. To his surprise, the woman sitting next to him leaned over, gesturing with a tankard of foamy ale.
‘Shipped over special from Onwai,’ she said. She had warm olive skin and her black hair had been braided into a looping crown on her head, which she’d then covered with some sort of bright red paste. It smelt strongly of ginger. ‘They have farms for them, where they breed them bigger and bigger, and feed them until they’re as big as that bastard down there. From what I heard, the Master of the Gates had ten of them shipped over in the last batch, and this one’s the runt.’
Frith frowned, imagining sharing a long sea voyage with such things locked up in the cargo hold.
‘It seems a very cruel way to execute someone,’ he said.
‘Well, yes,’ said the woman. ‘That’s the point.’
‘I suppose you are right.’
Below, the scorpion had turned its attention to the man in the loin cloth, and was stalking him steadily across the sand. The young man was moving backwards rapidly, shouting something to the man with the scars and the knives. Frith could well imagine what it was – Let’s work together, let’s help each other. But the big man was keeping back, staying out of the creature’s line of sight.
‘It’s got the taste now,’ said the woman. She slurped from her tankard. ‘This one won’t last much longer.’
She was right. The young man tried to circle away, and when the creature made a grab for him with its pincers he actually struck it, the wooden club bouncing off armoured plate like it was a drum. The left pincer caught him round the midriff, holding him in place – he gave a single, ululating scream – and then the tail shot down, the wickedly sharp stinger striking the man in the centre of his chest. From Frith’s vantage point it was possible to see the shining point emerge from the other side, slick with blood.
‘There you go,’ said the woman. ‘It’s a waste, putting this lot up against a scorpion. It’s over too quickly.’
The other man, the one with the knives and the scars, was approaching the scorpion rapidly from behind while the creature was occupied with the other prisoner. He ran low, both knives held up in front of him, and when he got round to the side of the creature he stabbed viciously at the thing’s head, trying to put out its eyes. The scorpion leapt backwards, dropping the young man, and now it was moving oddly. It seemed he had managed to injure it after all.
‘This is more like it,’ said the woman next to Frith approvingly. ‘Got someone here who knows what he’s doing.’
Overconfident from his success, the scarred man jumped forward again, knives moving in a flashy dance, tearing through the scorpion’s eyes and bursting them. The creature squealed, and Frith felt the entire audience recoil at the noise.
‘Son of a bitch,’ cried the woman. ‘He’s got more luck than sense.’
But it wasn’t quite over. Confused and blinded, the scorpion struck out at random with its pincers and quite casually sliced the scarred man’s arm off just above the elbow. A torrent of blood blasted forth in a gory arc, and the crowd groaned as one. It had been going so well.
The man fell to his knees, clutching at the mess that had once been his bicep, too surprised to scream yet. Frith got to his feet.
‘They’ll bring others out to finish it off,’ said the woman. She was waving at him to sit back down. ‘You’ll miss the best bit.’
Frith glanced back down into the pit. The man was lying in the sand now, marooned in a rapidly growing island of his own blood. The scorpion was lashing out wildly, thick drops of poison oozing from the end of its sting.
‘Thank you,’ said Frith, ‘but I think I’ve seen enough.’
70
‘Tell me about the worst ones. The murderers, the rapists.’
The woman looked at him oddly, as well she might. Frith kept his gaze steady, reminding himself that he’d already paid the Overseer a decent purse of coin just to have this conversation with her.
‘We have a good many of them,’ she said. She was a short woman with broad shoulders and a thick l
ayer of muscle on her arms and legs, and the red vest she wore was pierced all over with silver rings that jangled slightly as she walked. At her waist, these rings bristled with dozens of keys, and she carried a long horse-whip in one hand. ‘Here, we like to keep all the beasts together. Let me show you.’
They were within the workings of the Storm Gates now, patrolling shadowy corridors lined with sand and lit with guttering lamps. She led him down one corridor and out through a narrow training ground, the sand stained brown with old blood, and on through what Frith guessed must count as the living quarters for the prisoners here. Dark cells with rusted-iron bars dotted the Storm Gates like honeycomb, men and women standing well back from the Overseer. He suspected they were more than familiar with her whip.
‘Here you are, then. The ugliest bunch.’
They came to the end of the line. The cells here were small and cramped, and there was a stink of urine and rotten food coming from them all.
‘Salazar Gwint, who broke into an orchard and killed the entire family living there, before getting stupidly drunk on cider.’ The man in the nearest cell was skinny and pale, the tops of his bare shoulders pink with sunburn. He peered out at Frith with eyes as dull as pebbles, absently picking at his peeling skin.
‘A drooling idiot, if you ask me, won’t last five heartbeats in the arena. Here, we have Brightly Tripps, a much better prospect.’ The man in the next cell was well over six feet tall and nearly as wide around the middle. He grinned as he saw them passing, and winked luridly at the Overseer. ‘Made quite a name for himself, taking his knives across Relios and leaving a trail of blood behind him. Won’t have his knives in the arena though.’
‘It’s good to see you, oh brightly shining star of my dreams.’ The man’s voice was smooth and cultured. ‘I dream of you every night, maiden of the midden, you and your delicious skin.’
‘I wish he’d shut up though,’ she added, not looking at him. ‘On the end here we have Kathy Redfingers, who had a predilection for corpses. You should have smelt her when she came in, half the guards had to go and have a sit down.’
‘Do any of them have families?’ asked Frith. ‘Are they leaving anyone behind when they step out into the arena?’
The Overseer raised an eyebrow, and then shrugged.
‘There is one that might fit that description. One who still thinks his family are worth thinking about, at least.’ She led him across the way to a cell opposite the others. Inside, a man sat on the ground with his elbows resting on his knees, his head held so low that his long grey hair covered his face. He did not look up at their approach. ‘Jerston Blake. Got into a fight over a card game in a tavern. When the owner threw him out, he went back there in the early hours and killed the entire family save for one small boy, who hid under his bed. Long history of violence, this one. Not sure how he avoided the Storm Gates for so long, but he’s here now. Married to one long-suffering wife, with at least five children that we know about.’
‘I was drunk,’ muttered the man, still not looking up. ‘My blood gets hot when I’ve been at the drink; I’m not myself.’
‘Nonsense, Jerston,’ said the Overseer mildly. ‘You keep claiming you were stone-cold drunk, yet you had the wiles to pick that man’s lock and sneak your way to the upper floor. And you took your time killing them too, don’t forget that.’
Frith stared down at the man.
‘I would like to talk to the prisoner,’ he said eventually. ‘And I have a proposal for you both.’
It was late when Frith returned to the Storm Gates. Deep orange lamps were alight all over the city, and with the punishing sun vanished once more beyond the horizon, the evening was cool. He carried the Edenier trap wrapped in cloth and held securely under one arm. A guard was on the gate, waiting for him.
‘Evening, milord.’ As he spoke, his top lip curled into a sneer. ‘She has it all ready for you,’ he said. There was a brief pause. ‘You must have a lot of coin, milord, and strange tastes. Most people are content to see these poor bastards die in the dirt.’
Frith looked at him, saying nothing, until the guard cleared his throat.
‘Follow me, then, milord.’
The guard took him through the archway and led him on a new route through the warren-like corridors until they reached a small grubby room with mud on the walls. The Overseer stood in the doorway and, beyond her, Frith could see the man Jerston sitting on the only chair, his arms bound. He was staring past them both at something only he could see.
‘You’ve arranged it all, then?’ said the Overseer. There was a bright new dislike for Frith in her eyes, although he noticed she wasn’t backing out of their deal.
‘I have the banker’s note for you.’ He handed her a piece of parchment, which she peered at closely. ‘This man’s family will want for nothing, and you already have the first part of your payment.’
She nodded at the parchment before folding it away into a pocket.
‘Looks official enough to me. You don’t look the sort, that’s all.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ The question was out before he could stop it, his voice close to angry again. He just wanted this to be over.
‘This man might be scum, but he’s done nothing to you. Although I imagine that’s not what it’s about, is it? Most folks are content with too many drinks and a scrap, or a night or three in a pillow house.’
‘You would kill him eventually,’ said Frith, measuring each word. He couldn’t afford to lose his temper now. ‘Except it would be a public humiliation, and you won’t stoop to getting his blood on your hands.’
‘That’s different. That’s justice,’ said the Overseer.
Frith glanced behind her into the room. The convict had been tied to the chair and his long grey hair hung in his face. ‘If you have changed your mind, then I will ask for my coin back.’
The Overseer shook her head abruptly, making the dozens of rings on her vest jangle discordantly.
‘Get on with it, then. There’s no accounting for some folks.’
She stepped past him and waved him into the room. As he stepped through the door she closed it behind him, so close on his heels that he felt the wind of it push against his back.
‘It’s all done, is it?’ Jerston was looking at him now. His eyes were red and raw, his face gaunter than it had been earlier.
‘It has been arranged.’ Frith put the Edenier trap down on the floor, still covered over with the cloth. It was heavy, and he was relieved to put it down. ‘Your wife will receive a pension yearly from me for the rest of her life. It will be enough to see that your children are fed and clothed, enough for medicines if they require them.’ Frith cleared his throat. ‘I keep my promises.’
Jerston snorted. ‘It’s some promise, this. A blood promise.’
‘Your alternative is to remain a prisoner here,’ said Frith, ‘until the day they drag you up into the arena, to be torn apart by dogs, or run through by a scorpion, and your family will struggle on in poverty.’ He paused, wondering who he was trying to convince. ‘This way, your death will be fast. And your wife and children will want for nothing.’
The man grunted and shifted in his chair. His right leg jittered nervously.
‘What’s it for?’ he said. ‘Is it like the Overseer said? You just like killing?’
Frith clenched his fists at his side. Inside him, the Edenier was roiling and churning. He remembered the day he had claimed back his castle, the brittle noises as he broke bones with his magic, the terrible wet sounds Fane had made as he struggled to breathe through what was left of his lungs.
‘No, it is not like that. It is difficult to explain. But you should know that when you die you will be helping to end a great evil.’
Jerston looked up at him, his face creased with confusion and fear. ‘Aye. Well. Let’s just get this over with.’
Frith nodded and moved to uncover the Edenier trap. In the yellow light of the dirty room it looked strange and tumorous on the floor, and
Jerston visibly recoiled from it.
‘What is that?’ he said, his voice breaking a little.
‘It is a device. I will place it in your lap, and I will need you to look into it.’
The corners of Jerston’s mouth turned down and he shook his head. ‘I don’t think I like that none. I don’t want that touching me.’
‘It will only be for a moment.’ Frith lifted up the contraption, carrying it carefully over to where Jerston sat. The man drew back, as though Frith approached him carrying a handful of poisonous vipers, but he didn’t object again. Frith settled it on top of the man’s legs, and it crouched there like an obscene bubo. He had to admit, he didn’t blame the man for not wanting it near him.
‘I need you to look at that while I . . . while I work.’
Frith went around the back of the chair, while Jerston sat awkwardly, his arms still bound. His head was lowered slightly.
‘What is this thing?’ he said again. He sounded distracted now, as though he didn’t quite understand where he was. ‘It looks wrong.’
‘Just keep your eyes on it,’ said Frith, before adding, ‘think of your family.’
He drew a long-bladed knife from his belt and turned it in the light. He had spent part of that afternoon making sure it was as sharp as possible.
‘Do it then, milord,’ said Jerston. ‘I’m ready.’
But Frith found for a moment that he could not move at all. It was as though someone had thrown a bucket of water over him, and he had woken in a place he didn’t recognise. What am I doing here? How have I come to this? He looked at the blade in his hand and was appalled to see his grey eyes staring back at him in the reflection.
Do this and you are no better than any of them. He knew that was what Sebastian would say if he were here; if he had guessed at the nature of the device, he would never have helped him in the first place. If he had known it required a blood sacrifice to work . . . If he did this he would be a murderer, just like Fane and his grinning pets, the Children of the Fog; torturing and killing in the name of a demon.
