The City Stained Red

by Sam Sykes

  “He’s not.” She spat the words upon the ground, a challenge she defied Asper to meet. “Not like them. Not safe, not greedy, not… not this!” Her scowl trembled upon Asper, and she turned her gaze to her boots. “But he wants to be.”

  And when Kataria raised her eyes from the earth hesitantly, they were trying to cling to what anger remained, to keep the quivering fear behind it from showing.

  “I gave it all up,” Kataria said, no breath for the words, no anger for the voice. “My people. The Howling. Everything. I gave everything up for him. And now he’s trying to become them, these people that aren’t him, and he’s giving me up for all this dirt and gold.”

  It all came so naturally to Asper, she was barely aware of it happening. The smile and the warmth it came with flowed to her face. The right hand extended and laid upon Kataria’s shoulder. The fingers tightened gently about the bare skin in a sympathetic squeeze and she felt the tense, frightened pulse of life.

  “He won’t leave you,” she said, voice so tender, words so soft. “You mean too much for him not to take you.”

  Kataria’s eyes burst to bright, angry life. The teeth came sliding out like knives in a feral snarl. The ears came out from under her hat and flattened against the sides of her head. The arm swung, swatting Asper’s hand away.

  “Take me? Take me?” Kataria trembled, fighting to keep her fury restricted solely to her voice. “Take me where, round-ear? Why do you think I tuck my ears under this hat? Why do I not wear my feathers proudly? Why do I hide here, surrounded by humans?”

  The shict leaned closer. Asper felt her breath, hot. Asper heard her voice, sharp and curt, each word the thrust of a stone knife with a rough edge.

  “I. Can’t. Live. Here. We are two different people. I left mine behind for him. What will I have left when he goes, too?”

  Asper had no answer. Kataria had none that would satisfy her. The shict readjusted her hat, turned, and stalked away, muttering something about checking the other stalls for a sign of Miron. She disappeared into the crowd as though they were living underbrush.

  Asper was left staring speechless at the roiling crowds, the flurry of thrust elbows, the forest of tramping feet, the beggars reaching out and the eyes looking away, the grunted curses and the muttered counter curses, the spewing and the snarling and the sand and the dust and the gold and the blood and all of them.

  All the humans.

  She looked down at the discarded bowl, remnants of rice and curry spattered on the dusty ground like the traces of some long-ignored murder. A man’s boot stepped into the sauce, tripped over the bowl. He cursed at Asper and she never saw his face.

  Sighing, she reached down and plucked up the bowl to return it to the curry stall. But a line had formed after she had left and it no longer seemed worth the trouble.

  Instead, she turned to the derelict stall Kataria had leaned against. A collection of various sundries: jars, vials, amulets, pots filled with sludges, liquids, swirling gases, and what appeared to be a preserved head. Whoever it was, it didn’t seem to mind Asper leaving the bowl there.

  She placed it at the center of the stall’s counter, before the great heap of black rags dominated by the portrait of the elegant lady. She looked up at it, meeting her austere, oil-based smile, and returned a sheepish grin.

  “Sorry about this,” she said. “I can accept the abuse, but I can’t see myself standing in line to receive it.”

  With a slow, fluid turn, the portrait angled itself to regard her through a canvas stare.

  “Your social commentary is noted and agreed upon.” A flat, monotone voice responded from the elegant lady’s unmoving lips. “You may proceed to jest about one or more aspects of the aggressor merchant’s hygiene, if it so pleases you.”

  Asper would have fallen flat on her ass had she not staggered into someone as she backpedaled with a start. Her eyes so wide they forgot what blinking was, she stared as the heap of black rags stirred. And then moved.

  They rose to a towering six and a half feet tall, unfurling to reveal themselves as a well-groomed, unadorned black robe. From their depths emerged a pair of long, pale arms ending in great, clawed hands. The appendages moved in slow harmony, one producing a bottle of wine, the other a pair of scales. Asper was so enraptured with their fluid movement that she scarcely saw the second, smaller set of arms extending from the robes, offering soft, childlike hands in a gesture of hospitality.

  “Your expression suggests a lack of familiarity with the custom of greeting, shkainai.” The flat voice emerged from behind the portrait, around which a hood had suddenly formed. “A prompt apology is delivered forthwith to precursor assurances that you are welcome among the wares of the couthi.”

  “You mean you’re a couthi?” She had heard the name before, but never really imagined what they might look like.

  “Your astonishment is noted for future reference. You shall be soothed to know that no emotional trauma has occurred to this one’s demeanor.” The portrait inclined toward her slightly. “Salutations are extended by one Man-Shii Kree, owner, proprietor, and employee of the month of Man-Shii Kree’s Curios and Wonderosities.”

  All four hands gestured above the stall, to the plain, unadorned banner with words reading what was just spoken. Though right below, as the couthi neglected to mention, was the admonition: “Safe for Human Consumption (Oral).”

  She thought to inquire, though not before he—or so she assumed the couthi was—spoke again.

  “How may this one serve you today.”

  A long silence followed. She blinked and angled a curious look at Man-Shii Kree.

  “Sorry, was that a question? It’s just it’s kind of hard to tell,” Asper said, clearing her throat. “What with the, uh…”

  Don’t say “horrible, inhuman monotone,” she thought.

  “Accent.”

  “Ah. You are perhaps put at less ease by this one’s lack of intonation familiar to the act of querying.” The portrait bobbed as the head behind it nodded. “Research into your breed suggests that humans find confidence attractive. Questions indicate uncertainty. Uncertainty contradicts confidence. Statement, not question, is what establishes mercantile courage. Do you agree.”

  “Uh… yes?” She shook her head, searching for a spot to look on the portrait. “So, the… the painting.”

  “Salvation’s Mother, artist unknown, acquired through personal commission.”

  “Right, right. So… is that your, uh, face or… or what’s happening?” She extended a finger and made a vague, circular motion around the portrait. “With, ah, all this?”

  The couthi said nothing, clearly offended.

  Perhaps not “clearly,” she reasoned. Maybe just obscurely offended.

  “Our research in regard to your species suggests that the particulars of our facial structure were deemed”—he paused, considering—“unpleasing to a subset of our customers. Research indicates that humans prefer more soothing images, such as human females smiling, landscapes, or stationary bowls of fruit.”

  “Ah,” Asper said, “so that’s a mask?”

  “If it soothes you to call it such a thing, shkainai, I am pleased to confirm it.” He steepled all of his fingers at once. “Engage your eyes, please, to browse at leisure.” One of his larger hands swept over his display of vials, while a smaller one slid a glass of red liquid toward her. “The Bloodwise Brotherhood is pleased to offer complimentary samples on all beneficial and mostly beneficial products, to better offer an understanding of our services.”

  Amidst that entire pitch, the mostly had been slipped in quietly, like a needle in a neck. And like a needle in her neck, it was all she could think of.

  “Er, no, thank you. I was actually wondering if you might be able to tell me if you had seen—” She paused and stared at the portrait-mask for a moment. “If you had noticed a certain person around.”

  “Praise is heaped upon your face for attempting to invoke the tradition of associating mercantile prowe
ss with helpful rumormongering. But research has indicated that indulging in such trains of thought have often led to missed sales and lowered productivity.”

  She frowned. “So, I have to buy something first?”

  “It is without hesitation that this one informs you as to the Brotherhood’s peerless information-gathering and information-dispatching prowess. But such a display would violate employee conduct.”

  She glanced over his wares, trying to decipher among the many vials and pots which liquid was the least disgusting. She pointed to something a pleasant rose color. “How about that? What’s it do?”

  “Your eyeballs are undoubtedly fiercely endowed to spot such a quality product, shkainai.” One of Man-Shii Kree’s larger hands plucked the vial gingerly off its shelf, passing it to his smaller hands to extend to her. “Among our multitude of legitimate customers, Essence of the Rose is popular for virility and fertility issues.”

  She peered closer, squinting. “What is it? A love potion? Or a cure for a man’s slumbering groin?”

  “Love potions are a myth, shkainai. And while the Brotherhood certainly possesses the knowledge to correct a human male’s malfunctioning genitals, it is an invasive and costly procedure that we neither offer nor perform in public sectors with stringent decency laws.” He gestured to the bottle with all four hands. “It is a heavy sedative, used to render a human into a drowsy and suggestible state.”

  “Heavy sedative… suggestible… virility…” She eyed the couthi suspiciously. “Just what is this used for?”

  Immediately, Man-Shii Kree’s hands went into a flurry. One of the smaller appendages snatched the bottle back as the other thrust up a cautioning finger, and the two larger ones immediately produced dense-looking scrolls with waivers and statements written illegibly on them.

  “Employees of Man-Shii Kree and all members in good standing of the Bloodwise Brotherhood neither condone nor condemn nor possess a strong opinion on the subject of human copulation. All grievances may be directed to heads of societies and/or local authorities, presuming execution sentences are not considered.”

  Man-Shii Kree’s larger hands reached beneath the stall and returned with a scroll that unfurled over the edge of the counter.

  “Terms are negotiable and reasonable,” he replied.

  Just as his smaller hands produced a quill and inkwell and gingerly dipped it in before handing it to her, his portrait shifted. Asper followed his gaze—or what she thought was his gaze—and beheld Kataria approaching.

  “I didn’t find anything,” the shict said, snorting. “Also, I didn’t find a reason not to punch someone in the face. Not that I’m admitting to anything. Just that it’s something we might have to deal with.”

  Asper sighed and muttered what she thought was under her breath.

  “Shicts.”

  Man-Shii Kree’s portrait swiveled back to her. Digits trembled, deftly rolling the scroll back up and replacing it and the quill and inkwell back beneath the stall. His arms retreated back into his robes. He stood stock-still, apparently heedless of the curious looks Asper shot to him.

  “Something the matter?” she asked.

  “Ten thousand apologies heaped upon your face, shkainai,” he replied. “It was this one’s fervent belief, ardent hope, and private joy that the shict had departed for good. An unclean presence renders business impractical.”

  Kataria licked curry from her lips. “Who’re you calling unclean, bug?”

  “Wait, you two know of each other?” Asper asked, lofting a brow.

  “The couthi race is granted such a beneficial position in mercantile culture owing to our lack of a homeland,” Man-Shii Kree said simply. “Which we accredit to our many wars with perfidious, unclean, treacherous shicts.”

  Asper glanced at Kataria. “This is true?”

  Kataria shrugged. “I don’t know. Probably.”

  “Probably?”

  “Well, I didn’t do any of it!” Kataria snapped back. “Shicts have been around for a while. We’ve had wars with every race under the sun. Our fights with the bugs don’t make for good stories, though.”

  “This one possesses no home.” Man-Shii Kree’s voice began to strain, cracks forming at the edge of porcelain glass. “This one possesses no face. And that one complains about possessing no story about how its people burned our land and took our scalps.”

  “Takes two to fight a war,” Kataria snarled. “And we’re kind of busy fighting the humans now.”

  Asper winced before turning back to Man-Shii Kree.

  “All right,” she said, holding up hands for peace. “We don’t want any trouble. We’ll just get out of your way. Sorry for…” She waved her hands about. “You know, all of this.”

  Man-Shii Kree’s portrait tilted slightly. His arms came slithering out of their robes.

  “For what, shkainai? There is no reason we cannot complete our transaction.”

  “What? After what she just said? After what you said? All that stuff about unclean ones?”

  “Ah. Apologies. This one had hoped the shict was going to be away from you so you would be spared the explanation as to why we are now permitted to conduct business.”

  Asper had just opened her mouth to question that when she heard the cry. She turned around to see Kataria’s hat lying in the streets. Its wearer was a good twenty feet away and fading, seized, struggling and snarling in the grasp of five burly-looking Djaalics in armor as they hauled her through the streets, crowd parting before them with astonished expressions.

  The priestess whirled back on the couthi, scowling.

  “You called guards on her?”

  “In fairness, this one did offer statement as to the information-dispatching prowess of the Brotherhood.” He held up the rose-colored vial once more. “Please, accept a ‘slightly-guilty-of-treachery’ discount of ten zan.”

  Asper made a move to dart away, then paused briefly.

  She tore her pouch from her stall and slammed it on the counter, seizing the potion and tucking it into her medicine bag. She spared another moment to scowl at the couthi before snatching up the hat and taking off after Kataria.

  Man-Shii Kree’s voice chased her delicately, like flower petals on the breeze.

  “Embalming services are also available for soon-to-be-severed heads of dearly departed associates. Reasonable rates.”

  SIX

  THE SERPENT AND THE POET

  Having known many, and a few quite well, Gariath had come to realize that humans were, by and large, a simple race.

  They loved gold, swords, themselves, and each other, in that order. They guided themselves first by fear and second by lust. They called their cowardice practicality, their greed ambition, their love weakness. They were a simple people possessed of few surprises. And he thought he knew them well.

  Then they had to go and do some weird crap like this.

  Bedraggled, downtrodden, besotted, and degenerate. High-nosed, glittering, haughty, and grinning. Clad in rags, festooned in robes. Marked with dirt and gold and stains and beards. They were different, but he could tell this only because of their varying degrees of filth. Without that, all humans looked the same to him.

  And all of them crawled through the Souk on their bellies like worms. In a slow-moving river of filth and flesh, they crawled on elbows and knees, between stalls and under feet and over sunbaked stone. They crawled, to a far-distant place, and their numbers were endless.

  And they all wore bright, shiny smiles suitable for shoveling shit.

  Only their scent truly differentiated them. And their odors filled his nostrils in noxious disharmonies. He could smell their fear, their desperation, the loathing they hid behind those broad smiles.

  For years, Gariath had never cared to know much about humanity, this race that teemed across the land. And until two years ago, when he had met Lenk, he never had to. Two years later, he wasn’t any closer to understanding them.

  Despite the many he had known and the many he had
killed, he could not stare at them as he did now without feeling something like hatred.

  But sharper.

  “Magnificent, no?”

  Gariath turned at the voice. Too firm and full of itself to be the skinny little human he was supposed to be with; Gariath had a vague memory of the boy in the dirty coat saying he was going somewhere. Somewhere obviously not worth remembering.

  This human that had appeared at his side was scarcely any more impressive. A robe that once had been fine, a mustache that once had been groomed, a smile that belonged on a man who smelled not quite as bad. Gariath regarded him carefully, making certain his hood was pulled up far enough to mask his face. Not that it seemed to matter; the human’s eyes were solely on the humans upon the ground crawling through the Souk’s streets.

  “And this is but a trickle,” the man said brightly. “To become a stream, then a river, and then a flood of worship that flows continuously to the temple of Ancaa.”

  Gariath said nothing. The man appeared somewhat befuddled by his silence.

  “Have you not heard of Her?”

  Truthfully, Gariath had not. He had heard a number of names humans had for these “god” things they loved so much, but he assumed them largely to be something akin to a bodily function. A noise they made when they were excited, aroused, or frightened.

  “Ah, I see,” the man said, sighing. “A northerner would not know Her glory, would he? She only became known to us in Vhehanna in the past ten years. Pilgrims came from the Forbidden East and brought Her words. Of such beauty and power were they, they spread like a plague.”

  “A plague?”

  “Well, you know, a good plague. A plague of knowledge of charity.” He turned his vast, consuming smile up toward Gariath’s hood. “Have you known suffering, brother?”

  Gariath looked away and said nothing. The man didn’t seem to notice or care.

  “Have you known what it is to be left wanting? To be left desiring? To feel a vast emptiness where something should be?”

  Gariath lowered his gaze to the earth.

  “I have known that,” he said.