The City Stained Red

by Sam Sykes

  “I see no one else here who would strike a proud warrior from behind like a rat,” the tulwar barked.

  “Are rats typically known for striking from behind?” the female khoshict asked. “Asp would be more appropriate, thematically.”

  “You insult us, monkey.” The tall one pulled back his hood. A grinning mask carved from dark red wood stared out at the tulwar with frozen, unnerving glee. “Had it been us, you’d not be alive to scream.”

  The tulwar’s lips peeled back, fangs bared. His face began to flood with color. A cacophony of yellow, red, and blue blossomed across the folds of formerly gray flesh. Lenk’s eyebrows rose; he had always heard tales of the tulwar’s distinctive facial colorations. “War paint,” they called it, and with it came a fury that was legendary.

  “I mean to do more than insult.” His life slick on his palms, the tulwar’s hands slid to the twin blades at his hip. “Before humans, before shicts, we stood on this land. Every son and daughter of Tul has bled upon these sands.” They slid out of their wooden sheaths, long and hungry as the snarl painting the tulwar’s face. “Their honor is mine.”

  The khoshicts’ cloaks slipped back. They wore nothing but sandals and kilts, the long, dark muscle of their torsos wild with painted sigils. Their hands slid easily to the sickle-shaped swords at their waists. The one in the mask cocked his head to the side.

  “We are nothing if not indulgent, kou’ru,” he said. “If you feel this earth is thirsty, we are happy to slake it.”

  “Ecstatic,” the female said, sliding blade into hand as her canines flashed in a grin. “Really.”

  This was your plan, Denaos?

  Not that it didn’t make a good spectacle, Lenk thought: Excited chatter rippled through the assembled crowd; shouts of encouragement and derision from the human onlookers collided in the air over the combatants’ heads; money wagers began to change hands. All eyes were eagerly on the oid blood about to be spilled.

  All eyes save the ones that counted, anyway.

  The Jhouche guards at the Harbor Gate looked up with only passing interest. The rule of law in Cier’Djaal, it turned out, was really more of a loose guideline. And certainly the prospect of a few dead oids and a little stopped foot traffic wasn’t worth disrupting their precious lines over.

  He found Denaos in the crowd and mouthed the word: What?

  Denaos shot him the same unnerving wink and mouthed a reply: Watch.

  The rogue glanced to the edge of the Harbor Gate and gave a curt nod. The painstakingly stacked pyramid of crates bore a new passenger. At the very top, Lenk saw Kataria. Kataria didn’t seem to see him, though. Her eyes were on the scene down below, on the khoshicts.

  And she stared at them as she had stared at him. With longing. With anger. With sorrow.

  Eventually, she noticed Denaos. With a nod, she leaned down and gave the crates a stiff push. Shict and crates tumbled down as one, the former scampering into the shadows as the latter split apart, scattering silks and spices upon the stones.

  Lenk furrowed his brow in confusion. Nothing about this made sense.

  Not until the earth began to shake beneath his feet, anyway.

  The tide of people did not so much ripple as part in two tremendous waves to give path to the enormous shape that came loping up the road. Lenk’s eyes went wide at the sight as he stepped back as far as he dared to let the creature pass without incident.

  Resembling nothing so much as the product of a gorilla and a rhinoceros that saw admirable qualities in each other before they sobered up, a great beast lumbered toward the scene upon knuckles and feet the size of shields. Possessed of simian features with a long, twisted horn jutting from the center of its brow, it swept a pair of beady eyes around angrily.

  The crowd shifted nervously, even the tulwar and khoshicts lowering their weapons. For had the monstrosity and irritability of the vulgores not already been legendary, it just wasn’t a good idea to be too close to something with big, red tree trunks for arms.

  Branded upon the creature’s harness was the sigil of the naked girl atop the mountain of gold, the same that branded the crates shattered on the ground. It was only when people noticed this that murmurs of apprehension turned to whispers of fear.

  The last one to notice this was the vulgore himself. When he spoke, his voice was that of a mountain. A mountain that had drunk far too much the night before.

  “Kudj see many small squibs crowded around many small boxes. Boxes another squib paid Kudj to watch,” the vulgore rumbled. “Kudj stack in very polite, very precise method so no squibs topple box. But squibs topple box, anyway. Kudj wonder if perhaps Mother right. Kudj wonder if civility only as strong as weakest person participating.”

  He drew in a long, deep breath. The crowd followed suit, holding it.

  “But Kudj still believe in decency. Kudj believe in civilization. Kudj have faith in all people.”

  He exhaled, slowly, and nodded his massive, horned head.

  “This why Kudj limit imminent rampage to six corpses or less.”

  And that, Lenk thought, would be the sign.

  Further thought became impossible a moment later. An earth-shaking roar of fury and a screaming man flung from a colossal arm into the harbor provided a lot of distraction.

  And apparently, that had been the plan all along, Lenk thought. For as the crowd dissipated into so much human froth, fleeing this way and that as the vulgore swung, smashed, and screamed across the harbor, the guards at the gate immediately drew swords and moved to intervene. In no great hurry.

  Their lines shattered, with people grabbing as many goods as they could carry and making a mad rush past the gate. Among them, five undesirables would not be noticed, Lenk thought as his companions moved in and he moved to join them. They drew into a tight pack, heads low as they slipped in with the rest of the opportunists.

  “I hope you realize this doesn’t count,” Asper said harshly. “I said no murder.”

  “You never forbid murder by proxy,” Denaos replied.

  “I thought that was implied.”

  He turned his nose up at her. “Looks like you have something to learn about communication.” He smirked. “Anyway, I doubt he’ll kill anyone. Vulgores are meticulous and tidy by nature, but the idea that they go into murderous rages when their things are touched is an urban myth.”

  Somewhere behind them, someone let out a short scream punctuated by a sharp squishing sound. Lenk winced.

  “An urban myth, huh?” he asked.

  “We’re not technically in the city yet,” Denaos said, “so it doesn’t count as urban.”

  “And it doesn’t count as a myth if he actually does it,” Lenk said. “I’m pretty sure ‘vulgores are violent’ goes in the same category of fact as ‘water is wet.’”

  “Category?” Kataria asked, acid in her voice. “So, someone goes around from race to race, writing down their flaws, hopes, and habits in a summary page or so?” She sneered, flashing canine. “That’s handy. Maybe you could buy one here.”

  Later. Lenk clenched his teeth. Get angry later. Keep moving for now. He swallowed his ire. It tasted bitter.

  “Keep moving,” he muttered, forcing his head down. “It’s imperative that we don’t draw any attention.”

  As they neared the other side of the gate, another guard stepped forward, hand held up. “Pardon, sirs and madams. There’s been a disruption at the gate. We just need to—”

  A thick red fist shot out, catching him in the face and sending him collapsing to the ground, unmoving but for a faint twitch. Lenk looked wide-eyed to Gariath as he drew his arm back into his cloak.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” he said.

  “I didn’t not have to do that,” Gariath retorted.

  Lenk’s face screwed up. “Yes. Yes, you did. What do you think ‘imperative’ means?”

  “Some kind of fish, I’m assuming.” Gariath impolitely stepped over the guardsman’s unconscious body. “If that’s all the trouble we
see today, I’ll be disappointed.”

  “Clearly,” Denaos said, following suit, “you’ve never been to Cier’Djaal.”

  FOUR

  UNTO HEAVEN

  There was no greater testament to man’s devotion to making himself seem utterly insignificant than the Silken Spire of Cier’Djaal.

  This was Lenk’s thought as he looked up. And up. And ever up as the jewel of the city reached from the earth to knock at the door of the Gods.

  By itself, the Spire was not so impressive. Just a trio of stone pillars at points north, east, and south of the great stone ring that was the Souk. Towering as they were, they were not so tall as to be what made Cier’Djaal famed across the world.

  That honor belonged to the silk.

  In red and blue, black and green, purple and white, flecked with gold and favored with the sun’s caress, oceans of wispy silk swaths swayed in the breeze between the three pillars. And somewhere between the way the light sighed through it and the way the wind sent it rippling as waves murmuring on the shore, the Silken Spire told him why he had come to Cier’Djaal.

  Here, he was small, insignificant. Not a man with a sword, not a man with so many bodies in his wake. Here, he was just a man.

  Someone came up beside him.

  “I came from a village so small,” he whispered, “that the first time I saw a fountain, I stared at it for hours. I’d never even thought something like this could be made by men.”

  “It wasn’t.”

  A sharp, harsh voice spoke, like an arrow sinking into flesh.

  Kataria.

  He saw her angle a finger toward a splotch of black silk upon the oceanic tapestry. Or what he thought was a splotch of black silk, anyway, until it started moving.

  He stared and saw them more clearly: their many legs, their beady eyes, and their dark, hairy hides. Spiders, moving slowly across the silk sea like oil stains, trailed wispy strands of color from their spinnerets as they skittered across a massive tapestry that made sense only to them.

  “Gods,” he whispered, eyes widening. To be able to see them from so far away, he reasoned they must be colossal up close. “Monsters.”

  “Tourist.” Denaos’s sneer was as easy as his stride as he came up beside Lenk. “Sure, you think the Spire is great until you find out where it comes from. Then, suddenly, horse-sized arachnids that spew color from their anuses are weird.”

  “It is weird,” Lenk said.

  “What’s the big deal, anyway?” Kataria asked. “You’ve seen worse before.”

  “Yes, and I’ve killed worse,” Lenk replied. “I don’t know how comfortable I am with the idea of giant bugs having careers better than mine.”

  “That’s why this city bursts with gold while we scrape for coppers,” Denaos said. “You see something that spews something useful and desirable—”

  “Out its anus,” Lenk interrupted.

  “—and see something to kill,” Denaos continued, unhindered. “The fashas saw an opportunity. Their ancestors have been breeding the beasts since before this city had a name. And the silk’s made them—and, by happy coincidence, the city they live in—extremely wealthy.

  “They gave the city the spiders.” He pointed to the Spire. “The spiders gave the city the silk.” He traced a line through the air, down from the Spire and toward the streets. “And the silk gave the fashas the city.”

  They found their eyes drawn to it, the beating heart of Cier’Djaal. And the Souk, with its thousand eyes, could not spare even one to look back at them.

  It extended for miles in a vast ring, old stone walls rising around them, watching the goings on stoically as the people of Cier’Djaal steadfastly ignored them. Here the tide of humanity ceased to flow and started to churn. Here, it became a great, big, noisy, frothy, sweaty stew in a vast cauldron.

  Merchant stalls and impromptu storefronts lined the cauldron in great spirals of canvas and wood, deals, pleas, and threats hurled from their stands like spears. People roiled like chunks of meat, bobbing from stall to stall to lose one thing and gain another so that they might lose it somewhere else. Above them, their own language boiled like steam in an endless, formless babble.

  Even the tides of the harbor seemed cozy compared to the Souk’s sprawling madness. And he had come here, of all places, to leave his blade behind.

  To sell it to one of these greedy creatures in their caves of cloth and canvas, to get a price for all the blood it had spilled and the lives it had taken. To leave it to rust and eventually be picked up by someone with hands as soft as his had once been and never would be again. All so that he could be like them, these civilized people who never had to fight over anything more than a few coins…

  The sun shone brightly overhead and Lenk felt a chill that belonged to an older, more tired man.

  “So many people,” Asper whispered breathlessly, moving to join them. “How are we to find Miron in all this?”

  Of course. Miron. Their money. His future.

  Somewhere within that writhing mass of humanity was the means for him to become part of it, to have enough coin to cobble together a life like theirs. All that remained was to find him. Miron. Just one man.

  In a city of thousands.

  “It won’t matter if he isn’t even in here,” Lenk said, casting a disparaging look out over the cauldron. “He got past the gate hours ago. He could be anywhere in the city by now.”

  “He isn’t.”

  The voice was nasal and shrill, like an insect’s buzz except haughtier. The man—or boy; it was hard to tell these days—who spoke it did not seem any more impressive.

  He sat upon the edge of a derelict wagon. Hunched over as he was, the boy looked like an amalgamation of leather, paper, and grease. A dirty brown coat pooled around skinny crossed legs upon which a book that looked far too big for him was opened. Stringy locks of black hair hung around a thin face that didn’t bother to look up.

  Instead, Dreadaeleon merely waved a hand over the book. A page turned of its own accord in reply.

  Don’t ask, Lenk told himself. He wants you to ask.

  “How do you know?” Asper asked.

  Gods damn it.

  “A wizard’s ways are his own,” he replied. “One would hope we’ve known each other long enough that you wouldn’t think I’d part with secrets so easily.”

  He looked up, a smug smile on a face that hadn’t been punched nearly enough in its life.

  “Look, Dread,” Lenk said, rubbing his eyes. “Can we possibly just skip the coyness and get to the part where everyone acts impressed so you’ll tell us what we want to know?”

  The boy’s face twitched, his smile dissipating. What settled over him next was cold and sneering.

  “Make it good,” he said.

  “Everyone is indebted to the endless arcane power you command,” Lenk said on a sigh.

  “You truly make the rest of us laypeople look like simpering grubs,” Denaos added absently, glancing at his nails.

  “Soft, round women salivate at fantasies of burying their faces in your crotch,” Kataria said through a yawn.

  Dreadaeleon sneered at her. “Just because crassness comes as naturally to you as scratching yourself doesn’t mean you should do either in public.” He turned to Lenk. “To the point, then: I assume you were the root cause of whatever commotion just happened at the Harbor Gate?” He smirked. “And if so, you’ll no doubt have already noted the state of alarm your antics have engendered.”

  He pointed at various spots on the Souk’s wall, where gates leading to the other districts were stationed.

  “Every gate leading out of the Souk has a guard and every guard has a line a mile long. Cursory surveillance suggests Miron isn’t even standing in one. And thus, he has not yet left the area.”

  “Ah,” Denaos said. “And so comes the part where you tell us you were able to cover every gate within the biggest part of the city by flying or using some other kind of magic?”

  “How is it that you’re
still so unaware of how this actually works?” Dreadaeleon asked, haughtiness leaping comfortably into his voice. “Venarie—or ‘magic,’ to the common barkneck—is a precious gift, one not to be wasted on needless displays as fleeting as conducting examinations upon the gatherings of sweaty people.”

  He cast a wide gesture over the vast, churning populace of the Souk. “I could not spit without it hitting a merchant who would sell it for six coppers. I did not fly. I merely asked someone.”

  “Fine,” Denaos said. “So how’d you get in here, anyway? Did you ask the guards?”

  “Oh. No. For that, I did fly.”

  Lenk threw up a hand before Denaos could spit a retort. “That’s not terrible news, then. If Miron’s still here, picking him out shouldn’t be too—”

  He turned and looked over the Souk, surveying the miles-wide teeming masses. He hummed thoughtfully and sniffed.

  “Or maybe we should split up.”

  “It would make it harder for any authorities to find us, I guess.” Asper forced a pained smile upon her face. “Of course, we probably wouldn’t have that trouble if we weren’t responsible for nearly killing a dozen people.”

  “Later,” he snapped. “We’ll make this quick and easy.” He pointed a finger at Dreadaeleon. “You and Gariath check the gates to see if he’s there.” He eyed the boy warily. “Make sure Gariath keeps his cloak on.” He turned his glare to Gariath. “Make sure Dreadaeleon doesn’t call attention to himself. If either of you screw up, I want one of you to punch the other one.”

  Dreadaeleon’s eyes went wide. “Now wait just a—”

  “I like this plan,” Gariath said sagely, stalking off, cloak billowing behind him. He paused, looking over his shoulder at Dreadaeleon. His snout poked out from beneath his cloak, his smile broad and unpleasant. “Well?”

  The boy cast a baleful scowl upon Lenk for a moment before rising. The book fell from his lap, hanging from his hip by a thick chain. For a moment, he looked as though the weight of it might topple his skinny frame as he scurried after his hulking associate.