by Darius Hinks
“So?” asked Lorinc. “Will he care? He’s not known for his high morals.”
Isten shrugged. “You’d be surprised. His wife will happily turn a blind eye to most of his exploits, but the poor old witch thinks he’s still faithful to her. I don’t think Colcrow would want me to reveal the true, exotic nature of his business meetings.”
“And why would she believe us over him?” asked Lorinc.
“The Sisters of Solace would tell her themselves if I asked them. They adore me. They treat me like a prophet.”
Lorinc raised an eyebrow.
Isten held up her hands. “They take too many of their own drugs. What can I do?”
Lorinc snorted.
“Look,” said Isten, gripping Puthnok by the shoulder. “I know you’re the real prophet, but we can take advantage of the Sisters’ confusion. They’ll do anything I ask.”
“At least now I can understand how you managed to stay with them for so long without any money,” said Lorinc.
“Let’s do it,” said Amoria, spinning her staff around and holding it out to Puthnok, pulling her to her feet. “Sayal’s swaggering around Athanor thinking we don’t care that he killed your brother.”
Puthnok still looked doubtful and she glanced at Gombus. The old man had not spoken since they left the river.
Isten was still squeezing Puthnok’s shoulder. “I know what you’re thinking. But I haven’t forgotten who we are.” She nodded to the rotten beams and the faded words. “Your time will come.” She looked around at the whole group. “Our time will come. We’re not destined to die in this shithole. We all know that.”
No one spoke and Isten could imagine how hard it was to take a troop-rallying speech from someone who had spent the last year hiding.
“I won’t fail you,” she said, raising her voice, trying to sound as though she believed what she was saying. “I’ll get you home. You will see your families. We’ll make a new world, just like Puthnok said we would.”
They were all looking at her now, but their expressions were hard to read. Amoria was smiling, as was Lorinc, but Isten knew that was only because they’d caught the scent of blood. The rest of them were just staring. They were so gaunt and sunken-eyed that Isten felt like she was in a charnel house. As soon as that thought formed in her mind, the cinnabar made it real. Flesh sloughed from their bones, leaving her surrounded by rotting corpses. She pretended that nothing had happened, trying to keep her words level.
“But until that new world comes, we must find a way to survive this one. Which means money. Which means dealing with the Aroc Brothers. We need to make Sayal pay for what he did and then take back what’s ours.” She was talking with more confidence now, making statements she actually believed in. “We’ll get some help from Colcrow, then we’ll arm ourselves and pay a visit to the Aroc Brothers.” She glanced at Puthnok. “I’m more than happy to deal with Colcrow if it means I can get to Sayal.”
One of the cadavers spoke. It was a rotting, worm-threaded lump, but she knew from its raspy voice that it was Gombus. He had finally decided to address her. “And after this deal, Isten? What then? More deals?”
As the corpse spoke, its jaw tumbled down its chest, spilling bluebottles and maggots.
“Only until we’re sufficiently well armed to bring the other Exiles to back to our cause,” she replied. “We’ll buy them with money and violence, but then we’ll turn Puthnok’s wisdom on them. When they hear what she has to say, they’ll start to dream again. We all dream of a new homeland. That’s our most valuable currency. And then, when we’re ready, we’ll leave, I promise you. When we have men and arms and money, there’s nothing we can’t do. We’ll go home, Gombus. I’ll become the woman you all want me to be, I promise you, but you know what would happen if we went back now, like this. We’d be dead before we saw a familiar face.”
“You’ve said this before.” Gombus shook his head, spilling worms from his ruptured neck. “You’ve spent years doing deals and killing people, Isten. Where has it got us? You can barely stand. And you’ve soiled your hands doing things I don’t want to think about.”
Anger cleared Isten’s eyes and she saw Gombus properly again. He had an air of gravitas that little Puthnok could only dream of. It wasn’t just his weathered, lined skin; there was something venerable about Gombus that was hard to explain. They all sensed it – a calmness that held the Exiles together when they would otherwise have fallen apart. His doubt hurt Isten as much as it always did. And, as always, it brought out the worst in her.
“What else should we do?” she snarled. “Rot up here on this roof, reading Puthnok’s manifesto to each other until we die? Let the Aroc Brothers take the city without a fight? Let them murder Ozero without any payback? Stay true to the dream until they sling us in the Saraca with all the other sad fuckers?”
Gombus looked pained but said nothing.
The angrier Isten became, the clearer her thoughts grew. “There’s no deal I won’t make, Gombus, if it means we can survive for another year, another day. There’s no crime I won’t commit to keep us alive.”
She squared up to him, until her face was level with his chest. “But what about you? Are you still with me, Gombus?”
Isten immediately regretted asking the question. She could see the others watching him closely. He was a relic. A link to the past. A link to Isten’s mother and a host of other legends. The loyalty of the group would hinge on what he said.
Gombus shook his head and asked the question none of the others had dared. “Why did you go, Isten? Where have you been all this time?”
“Having fun,” she muttered, avoiding his eye.
He gave her a patient stare.
His face was her earliest memory. He was the closest thing she had to family. And his doubt dragged bile into her throat.
“And why did you come back?” he asked.
She nodded to the hollow-eyed faces that surrounded them. “Because they’re dying. Because you’re dying. And I knew you would be. God help me, I didn’t want to come back, but not one of you has any sense. Puthnok thinks you’re going to topple empires and you can’t even feed yourselves.”
“Where did you go, Isten?” he said. “You can’t have been with the Sisters the whole time. How have you survived a whole year without us to protect you?”
She laughed. “Protect me? Can you see yourself, Gombus? How much protection do you think you can offer? Did you protect Ozero?”
Gombus’s gaze faltered. He looked wounded and she felt a rush of shame, but that just made her angrier. “You’re pathetic,” she spat, “all of you. You’ve forgotten how to fight.”
“You left for a reason,” said Gombus, refusing to let her dodge his question. “I know you’ve always hated this, but you were never foolish enough to leave us before. What made you go? What did you do?”
Isten felt sick. It horrified her how easily he could read her; how accurately he had pinned her. She was about to insult him again when Amoria held up her hand for silence and pointed her staff.
There was a fox, over on the roof of the library. It was staring at them, its head swaying gently from side to side as it padded backwards and forwards.
“I’ll be damned,” said Lorinc.
Isten backed away from Gombus, grabbed the last scraps of chicken and threw them onto the other roof.
The fox ignored them, staring directly at her.
“Still alive?” whispered Isten. It was a scrawny, bedraggled runt, with an ear missing, but they had seen it several times when they first arrived in Athanor. In those early days of exile, when they had so few friends, the fox had felt like a symbol of hope, a fellow outlaw. Like all of Athanor’s wildlife, it had been transformed by the fumes that spilled from the Saraca. Its nape and back sported a lattice of wire threads that tumbled and spiralled down its flank, encircling its legs, glinting as it moved, making it look more like an invention of the Curious Men than a creation of nature.
“Is it definitely her
?” asked Amoria, stepping to Isten’s side.
“Look at the ugly fucker,” said Lorinc. “It’s her.”
“How long do foxes live?” asked Isten, looking back at Puthnok, assuming, as always, that she would know.
“We first saw her five years ago. They don’t usually survive that long, out of captivity I mean, but here, in Athanor, who knows? I suppose it’s possible. It looks like her. I recognize the markings.”
The fox watched them for nearly a minute, its head still swaying, then it snatched the meat and scampered off back down the roof, glinting as it vanished into Athanor’s bare-boned tangle of domes and spires.
They watched the fox go in silence. So much had happened since they arrived in Athanor. So much had been lost.
Isten’s head was briefly clear of cinnabar and she closed her eyes, savouring the breeze whipping through the minarets, bathing her face in the noise and mystery of the city. It felt good to have a purpose. To have a way to help. Sayal had to die. She had to kill him.
When she opened her eyes, everyone was watching her, and Gombus’s expression had softened.
She said nothing, holding his gaze.
With a trembling hand, he took some coins from his robes and gave them to her. “Of course I’m with you.”
2
At night, if she slept too sober, she would see his face, swimming through the dream tide, cold and inhuman. He would smile as he led her to the bed, a ghastly, heartless grimace. Hatred would boil up through her, the hatred she could not risk when she was awake. He could have told her what it meant. He could have stopped her. He could have told her how she would feel. But as the Exiles welcomed her home, and the old life came back, the face in her dreams grew fainter, the anger softer, the darkness kinder. She could almost forget how badly she had betrayed them.
The Zechen baths was the name given to the entire eastern border of the Temple District. There were miles of ancient spas and bathhouses, some were still in regular use, but most were little more than beautiful ruins – a crumbling sprawl of silent fountains and toppled, serpentine arches, suitable only for the musings of poets, dogs and the occasional murderer. Isten barely noticed the architecture, rushing down ribbon-curve walkways with her head down, clinging to the shadows. It had taken nearly a week of discreet questions and whispered threats to pin down Colcrow’s movements, but now they were moments away.
Lorinc led the way, hauling his massive bulk over the ruins with surprising ease. There was a full moon and they made a bold line of silhouettes against the bleached bathhouse walls, but the local cutpurses would all be busy. There were rich pickings to be found half a mile away – in the libraries and colleges on the far side of Anatis Square. The laborators who served the Curious Men wielded none of their masters’ power, but they were often to be found carrying the same valuable base metals. The larger colleges were rumoured to be guarded by Ignorant Men, but most of the laborators were left to fend for themselves. Some carried knives beneath their robes, but their only real defence was the reputation of their masters – a defence that worked well on the sane and the sober, but not so well on the majority of Athanor’s citizens.
“It’s that one,” called Amoria, her horned scalp bobbing up and down on the far side of a toppled wall. She was pointing her staff at a bathhouse with lights blinking through its windows.
Lorinc paused, hunched on a headless statue. “This one, surely?” he called back, nodding to another illuminated building in the opposite direction – an impressive dome, surrounded by colonnaded walkways.
They all stopped and looked around for Puthnok. She was way behind the rest of them, clambering awkwardly over the rubble-strewn streets and holding a little lantern before her, despite the blazing moonlight. She had the most peculiar way of walking. She seemed to be in a constant state of falling – scurrying on her tiptoes, leaning forwards, as though battling into a strong wind.
It took her a moment to notice the expectant silence, then she pushed her glasses back up her nose and waved her lantern in the direction of Amoria. “The Varavia baths,” she hissed.
Amoria gave Lorinc a triumphant smirk, vaulted a wall and jogged off towards the building.
They rushed down a long portico into a square courtyard with doors on either side and an unused fountain at the centre. Moonlight blazed across the ancient paths and stretched beneath the winding cloisters. Hiding was not an option, so Isten led the others with a confident swagger as they approached the entrance to the baths.
There was no attendant waiting outside. Despite the heat of the day, Athanor’s clear skies meant the nights were usually cool. She guessed the attendants would be inside, huddled around a card game. She could hear muffled voices and the rattling of pipes, so the bathhouse was clearly open.
“Do we all go in?” asked Lorinc, trying to peer through a shutter.
Isten had only brought the three of them: Lorinc so that nobody would mess with her, Amoria in case they did mess with her and Puthnok because it was funny to watch her running.
She shook her head. “No, just you and Amoria in case he has Golo with him.” She looked at Puthnok. “You can wait out here. If we get our throats slit, tell Gombus he was right to doubt me and that he’s permitted to be smug when he sees me in the river.”
Puthnok was still breathless from climbing through the ruins, so she just nodded and wandered off to lean against the crooked fountain at the centre of the square.
“What do you have on you?” Isten asked, looking at the other two.
Amoria threw her quarterstaff to Puthnok and pulled out a small, leaf-shaped knife, holding it into the moonlight to proudly show Isten how keen the blade was.
Isten nodded and turned to Lorinc.
He flipped back his jacket to reveal a short, iron crowbar.
“Ok,” said Isten. “Don’t say anything stupid. I know what Colcrow is, but we’re here looking for help, not a fight.”
They both nodded, but Isten could see a worrying glint in Amoria’s eyes. She stared at her a little longer.
“I understand,” she grinned, holding up her palms.
Isten nodded and pushed the door open, unleashing a wall of hot damp air. As she expected, the attendants were waiting inside, but it was clear they would be no problem. Their eyes were blood red and they were slumped in their chairs, staring rapturously at the ceiling with drool glittering in their beards. Most of the bathhouses doubled as cinnabar dens and the staff were usually users who never managed to leave.
The taste of the cinnabar caught in Isten’s throat and she froze.
“Come on,” muttered Lorinc, his tone sympathetic as he gently shoved her forwards. They had all developed vices over the last few years. Isten’s were just more visible. She nodded and carried on, trying to ignore the smell, but even the aroma was enough to unshackle her thoughts. The shadows thrown by candles became more animated, reaching towards her as she headed for the next door.
One of the attendants mumbled and waved to a copper bowl on a table in the corner.
Lorinc dropped a coin in as he passed, knowing that Amoria would remove it again as she passed, along with another two.
They headed to the next room, undressed, wrapped themselves in bathrobes and went on into the steam room.
The heat was wonderful. After hours of skulking through the streets, Isten forgot about Colcrow and revelled in the steam. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back, allowing her muscles to relax. She was still aching from the falls and cuts she had received in the company of the Sisters of Solace, but the steam almost reminded her how it felt to be healthy.
The other two had already moved on, vanishing ghostlike into the steam, so she edged forwards. The first chamber was small and circular, and there were indistinct figures slumped all around her, sat on smooth, tiled benches, their heads hung between their knees. The thick steam made them amorphous and ghostlike – pale, sweltering heaps in the darkness. Isten’s mind was still playing tricks on her and she felt as
though she was drowning, peacefully, surrounded by shoals of pallid sea creatures, sinking through the floor as the heat pipes rattled and moaned.
Someone coughed, jolting Isten from her trance, and she stepped around the brazier, being careful not to jostle any of the other guests.
It was hard to be sure in the steam, but she did not think any of the ghosts were Colcrow. There would be a very specific crowd of women around him. She opened a door and moved on into the next chamber.
This one was even hotter, and lit by a skylight, so moonlight revealed the slumped figures on the benches in more detail. Lorinc and Amoria had sat down and they watched her approach in silence. Then, when she had almost reached them, they nodded to the bench opposite.
As Isten expected, Colcrow was surrounded by a group of almost identical young women: the same blonde, slender, doll-like waifs he always surrounded himself with. Like everyone else in the baths, Colcrow looked comatose, leant back against the mosaic-tiled wall, his mouth hanging open, his eyes closed and his hands resting palms upwards on his knees. He was not wearing any robes, or even a loincloth, clearly proud of his powerful bulk. In his youth, he had been as impressive as Lorinc, but now he was paunchy and soft, his features hiding in the centre of his jowly head. Since Isten last saw him, he had grown a long, thin goatee and dyed it purple. It spiralled down his gut like a sleeping snake.
Sitting near Colcrow was another large figure. Isten could not see his face, but she could tell by his rigid, upright posture that it was Colcrow’s bodyguard, Golo. Golo had been a soldier in the old country, before they were all sent into exile, and he still carried himself with the same brittle pride, despite being almost as old as his master. Like Colcrow, Golo had once been one of the Exiles. A believer. But now he only served Colcrow. And he served for money, not ideals. Isten had no doubt that Golo would be armed.
She gestured for the other two to stay where they were. They were fast enough to help if things went wrong and Isten would rather Colcrow think she was alone.
