The City Stained Red

by Sam Sykes

  While the garb was flattering enough to accentuate her more feminine qualities, she was still every bit the warrior, even without the ceremonial saber at her hip.

  “Watch-Sergeant,” she said, not bothering to keep the surprise out of her voice.

  “Wing-Sergeant, actually,” the Sainite replied. “Promotion after W.S. Scarmont died in the latest scuffle with the fuckin’ Karnies.” Blacksbarrow’s eyes traveled the length of Asper’s half-clad body. “So… this is new.”

  “Debt slavery,” Asper blurted out as she made a vague attempt to cover herself with her tray. “Bad decisions. And… uh, yeah.”

  “Fuckin’ Djaalics.” Blacksbarrow took a long sip from her glass, then tossed it aside and watched it shatter upon the floor to be scraped up by another servant. “Puts people in chains and then lectures us about civility. If High Command would approve deployment of a proper Wing into the city instead of the shit garrison we’ve got stationed here, we could change that.” She snorted and took a goblet from Asper’s tray. “But they want us to play nice with the Djaalics, so we have to come here and see where this ‘mediation’ shit is going down.”

  “Survey it well,” a deep voice boomed from nearby. “It will be the grave He buries you in.”

  Asper was not as surprised to see Careus approaching, even less surprised by his garb. Strict followers of Daeon, the Conqueror, diplomatic dress for Karnerians was only slightly less intimidating than their battle armor. His giant hands were wrapped in black gauntlets; plates of black metal glistened from beneath the pitch robes he wore. A tremendous silver sign of the Sacred Horns of Daeon hung from his neck as the only color in his wardrobe.

  “Er… wine?” Asper raised her tray to be met with a gauntlet held upright in refusal.

  “Daeon demands strength of mind and body, and thus Daeon demands abstinence. If we are to make His will known in these trifling mediations, we must remain in control of every faculty.”

  Asper mouthed the word we silently. She suddenly caught sight of them, two more Karnerians in equally severe dress, looming nearby with scowls fixed on the conversation. A quick sweep to the other side saw three Sainities in military dress, equally attentive and hostile.

  Every hand was on a sword—ceremonial dress, but still bladed and ready. Every brow was locked in a glare—beneath shaven Karnerian pate and Sainite warrior tail. To survey the scene, one might have thought they would wage their own war right there, mediation be damned.

  Fitting, Asper thought. Far from this conflict, the priest of Ancaa, his robes trimmed with gold and his headdress a sea of emeralds and sapphires, laughed long and loud with the guests surrounding him as he drained a goblet of wine in one swallow, completely oblivious to the imminent disaster.

  “You should drink while you can, Karnie,” Blacksbarrow snarled. “If this mediation scrawshit falls through, the only thing you’ll be possessing is a three-foot blade in your throat.”

  “Your threats are as empty as your faith, Sainite,” Careus replied, voice black as his garb. “You rage against that which cannot be shaken. You rail against that which has no ears for such shrillness.”

  “Is that so?” She swigged the rest of her wine and threw the goblet aside, heedless of the servant who collected it as she reached for her saber. “Do you need a few new holes in you to hear with, then?”

  Careus pushed aside his robes to reveal a long, serrated blade at his hip. “The Emperor and Daeon shall shed no tears if I uphold honor here.”

  Asper swept a fervent glance around. The other Karnerians and Sainites moved forward, beginning to draw their blades.

  “Wait!” she all but shrieked. “WAIT!”

  Both of their gazes—as well as those of a few guests—turned toward her.

  “Do this,” she said softly, “and all you’ll have proven is that you couldn’t control yourselves. How will you ever convince these people you could control their city?”

  Hard as iron, their stares all but creaked as they turned them from her toward each other. Their thoughts were seared across their faces in scowls, neither willing to show cowardice by backing down, nor willing to show recklessness by drawing first blood.

  Slowly, hands were eased off of hilts. Slowly, heels were turned upon. Slowly, a bloodbath was averted as priest and soldier consigned themselves to ignoring each other.

  Asper breathed a sigh of relief. She hadn’t actually expected them to listen. A priestess had few armaments at her disposal. Fortunately, guilt and shame were both well-honed tools of her trade.

  She started at the sudden sound of a heavy knocking at the door. Three swift, three slow. The signal.

  She looked around; all servants who might know better were otherwise occupied. Slowly, she moved to answer the sound. Ghoukha’s massive, gilded doors were far too huge to be feasibly opened, spanning at least ten men tall. A smaller, more accessible door set at their foot slid open soundlessly as she pushed it.

  And for about the thirtieth time that day, she suspected she had been wrong to assume Denaos’s madness might just be a misunderstood brilliance.

  Three figures in black of varying height stood before her. Their clothes were made of black burlap; masks covered their faces with glassy eyes sewn in. Two carried lanterns hanging upon rods they carried on their back; the tallest wore a heavy book on his. A long wagon loomed behind them.

  “Gevrauchians,” she said. “You disguised yourselves as death priests.”

  “Yes?” Denaos asked from behind his burlap mask. “And?”

  “I was expecting you to be dressed as nobles. So you would fit in. You’re aware the goal of a disguise is to not attract attention, aren’t you?”

  “We’re wearing shoddy clothes, we smell like corpses, and we worship a God who eats souls,” Dreadaeleon muttered in reply. “Who, exactly, is going to want to spend time with us?”

  “Besides,” Denaos spoke up, “noble disguises cost money. Stinky burlap costs nothing.” He canted his head to the side. “Now, are you going to invite us in?”

  She made a move to step aside, but paused. “There was a gate around Ghoukha’s estate. Weren’t there any guards?”

  “Maybe,” Denaos replied. “But is anyone really going to question why Gevrauchians smell like blood?”

  She resisted the urge to shut the door on him. But then, it seemed a waste to go walking around half-nude for no reason. With a sigh, she stepped aside and let them and their wagon rattle in. Fortunately, even the smaller door was ostentatiously large enough to allow the wagon entry.

  Almost unanimously, the guests turned to see the newcomers. And, with the same precision and much, much more haste, they instantly turned away.

  “Who invited the corpsers?” someone impolitely called out.

  “Shut up!” another one scolded. “They’re priests of the Bookkeeper. Do you want to offend the Death God?”

  Asper had to admit to herself, the disguise was cannier than she had suspected. Guests turned aside to let them through without looking at them; servants took extended routes to avoid them as they rattled toward a deserted corner—or rather, a corner that quickly became deserted—to park their wagon.

  She followed, as a polite servant would have, and the other slaves seemed grateful for it. That was how she noticed something stirring beneath the wagon’s burlap cover. Her eyes widened.

  “Gariath?”

  The dragonman offered a low, disgruntled growl in reply from beneath his cover.

  “Don’t talk to him, idiot,” Kataria said, whirling upon her. “He’s supposed to be a corpse!” She slapped the burlap. “And corpses don’t growl.” Through her glassy eyes, she surveyed the houn. “Where’s Lenk?”

  “He managed to sneak upstairs.” Asper pointed to the twin staircases snaking up to the estate’s second level. “He thought Miron might be hidden up there.”

  “Makes sense,” the shict grunted. “I’ll go see what he’s found.”

  “Upstairs is off-limits to guests,” Asper protes
ted.

  “Anyone who wants to try to stop me is more than welcome to try,” Kataria growled before stalking off.

  “And have you found anything?” Denaos asked.

  “Not yet,” she replied. “Ghoukha is supposed to be coming down within an hour to make his announcement and showcase where he’ll be holding the mediation. I thought I’d be able to sneak around at that point.”

  “A problem.” Denaos pointed to the various house guards stationed everywhere. “Have a look at that.”

  “What? I’ve been watching them all night. They aren’t doing much more than talking with the guests and showing off.”

  “Exactly. They’re too handsome to be guards.” Denaos scratched his burlap. “Ghoukha wants his most charming ones down here for his guests. The ugly ones—that is, the real ones—will be upstairs and other places where people like us ought not to be.”

  “What about Kataria?” Asper asked. “And Lenk? Are they in danger?”

  “They wouldn’t be, if you’d let me do something.” Dreadaeleon’s voice was low and menacing. “These barknecks have never seen a member of the Venarium at full force. A bit of fire here and there and they’ll scatter like flies from a corpse and we’ll have free run of the place.”

  “Until the other guards come down,” Denaos sighed in reply.

  “Then we kill them, too,” Gariath muttered from under the tarp.

  “Corpses don’t talk,” the rogue replied. “Just… hold on. Give me a moment to take stock of where looks like a good place to stash an impostor posing as a priest. If Ghoukha’s announcement draws enough attention, we’ll have an opportunity to go looking later.”

  Asper frowned at him. “And if it doesn’t?”

  “Then we make our own opportunity.” Denaos rapped his knuckles on the wagon. “Or did you think I brought this just to impress the help?”

  “What do we do in the meantime, then?” Dreadaeleon asked.

  Denaos pulled his burlap mask up enough to reveal his mouth twisted into a wide grin. He plucked a goblet from Asper’s tray and took a long swig.

  “It’s a party, Dread. Try to enjoy yourself.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  GILDED GOBLETS OVERFLOWING

  It wasn’t until Lenk discovered the toilet that he decided he truly hated this man.

  Carved into the wall of an amply rounded room made out of marble, fitted with bronze trimming, and built solid, sturdy, and tremendous for a man of the fasha’s gravity, the toilet possessed a smugness not befitting something one shat in. It seemed to glisten as though it were a throne, its golden seat a crown.

  Lenk wondered how much this had cost Ghoukha.

  Admittedly, indoor plumbing—to the immense and smug delight of Djaalics—was still something of a novelty in the north. In his home village of Steadbrook, four walls around a hole in the ground had been high luxury. Perhaps his view of the subject was tainted by the fact that he understood this toilet only slightly better than he did witchcraft.

  But still…

  A man ought not to pay more to shit than he does to buy a human.

  He heard the sound of armor rattling, boots treading on marble. He ducked into the lavatory, eased shut the door, and waited for the patrol to pass.

  This was quite encouraging, he thought.

  Not hiding in a toilet—this just happened to be the closest room to hide in. But before this, he had hidden from guards in an accountant’s office, an upstairs kitchen, and a room he could only describe as a garden of shaven delights.

  Why so many guards? The upstairs were supposed to be forbidden to guests and servants alike, but surely that would require only a few token guards to watch the halls. He had counted, by sound of boot, no less than fifteen men up here.

  He supposed he could chalk that up to Ghoukha’s wealth. Gold toilets notwithstanding, the upstairs was still worth more than most villages. Every imported wooden door with gilded knob concealed behind it a parlor, an office, a room filled with more wealth in silk, art, and furnishing than Lenk had ever seen. There wasn’t a bare spot on the walls of the halls, either. Spiderwebs coated the walls in elegant, abstract tapestries.

  Lenk knew enough about Djaalic nobility to be aware that even by the standards of fashas, Ghoukha’s wealth went well past obscene and touched blasphemy.

  Just as he knew the only thing fashas liked more than having wealth was showing it off. Houn was something ingrained in their culture, Denaos had said; in the north, dominance was decided through war, in Cier’Djaal people accumulated gold, spiders, silk.

  So why forbid guests from being up here to see it all? Why keep them relegated to the fabulously ostentatious houn when they could just as easily be given two entire floors to be dazzled by?

  Unless Ghoukha had something to keep hidden. Or someone.

  Lenk pressed his ear against the door and listened. The footsteps faded into the background. Nothing else was coming. He eased open the door and leaned out.

  A pair of eyes, wide and startled, met him.

  His fist lashed up instinctively, but stopped just short of a goateed chin. Instead, he settled for pursing his lips and glaring at the smiling face set within the white hood.

  “How the hell did you manage to get up here?” he asked.

  “It’s very hard to keep me out of places I want to be in,” Mocca replied. His eyes drifted over Lenk’s half-clad body, one nostril flaring in distaste. “I do believe the story of how you found yourself up here might be more interesting.”

  Lenk glanced around the upstairs hall to make certain no guards were coming. “You need to get lost.”

  He slipped out of the toilet and began to creep down the hallway. He paused at a corner, peering around the corner. There was no sight of armored body, no sound of heavy boot. The upstairs was dead silent.

  “Oh, are we on a stealth mission?”

  Was.

  “How exciting!” Mocca whispered, creeping up behind Lenk and mimicking his posture—albeit with a flair intended to exaggerate sneakiness. “What are we doing? Searching for lost treasure? Angling to assassinate someone? Should I have worn black?”

  “Shut up,” Lenk whispered angrily. “What are you even doing here? This is a party for the nobility of Cier’Djaal. You know, the wealthy? The influential?”

  “My friend”—Mocca’s smile came out on the slow lilt of his tongue—“I am more influential than you or this city will ever know.” He cleared his throat. “I got bored of the party down below. I noticed our dear host hadn’t yet shown himself, so I got curious.”

  “That’s it? You waded past guards just because you were curious?”

  “Why’s that so hard to believe?” Mocca offered a nod behind Lenk. “Clearly, I wasn’t the only one.”

  Lenk looked up. Behind them, standing like a particularly impoverished ghost, was the slender form of Fasha Sheffu. The fasha had dressed up for the invitation to Ghoukha’s house, though not with any real conviction, changing his threadbare, ragged blue robe for a threadbare, ragged gray one.

  “How’d he sneak up on us?” Lenk whispered to Mocca.

  “Clearly, you’re not as good at this as you think you are,” Mocca replied.

  “Things have taken a turn for the worse for you, my friend,” Sheffu said, striding toward Lenk. “Debt slavery? Low funds? Perhaps you just liked the feel of the breeze?” He stopped a few feet away and canted his head at the young man. “Or perhaps, as a novelty, we could choose to not lie to each other this time.”

  Lenk met his gaze. The fasha’s amber eyes possessed an unnatural, heavy-lidded calm to them.

  “You first,” he said.

  “It took a bit of persuasion to get me in here,” Sheffu replied, an edge of bitterness in his voice. “Invitations do not often come to my house of late. But this was an event I had no desire to miss.”

  A long silence hung between them. Lenk sighed. “Are you waiting for me to ask?”

  “I suspect there’s no need,” Sheffu said. “J
ust as I suspect you’re here for a similar reason.” He glanced about the opulence of the hall. “There is something awry in the house of Ghoukha. He has always been wealthy, and yet this is not the home of someone merely wealthy, is it?”

  True, Lenk had to admit to himself, if not to Sheffu; a man who literally shat gold—or on gold, anyway—transcended mere wealth.

  “Where did he get it all?” Sheffu pressed. “And how much does he have that he can afford to hire so many guards and buy so many weapons?”

  “They say he has a new silk,” Lenk said. “Something stronger than anything else out there.”

  “And where did that come from? What has he done to earn it? There are rumors, of course. The silk is made strong by feeding the spiders human flesh. How is he doing it? Who is lending him aid?”

  “I’m guessing you have an idea.”

  “As do you,” Sheffu replied; “otherwise you would not be here.” He drew closer. “Can you not feel it? It is as the beat of a heart in decay, the pulse of black blood through a dark vein. Something vile stirs beneath this home.”

  “I don’t feel anything but increasingly uncomfortable at how close you are,” Lenk replied, gently shoving the fasha back a step. “I came here to find someone who owes me money. Nothing more.”

  “There is always more, fool,” Sheffu growled behind his veil. “Do you honestly think someone with your ability and your legacy was meant for coveting coins? Do you not think a greater power had a hand in your coming here?”

  The fasha’s left hand shot out and seized Lenk’s wrist. His eyes shot open to wide ambers. Lenk saw movement behind the man’s tattered veil, a tongue lashing against the silk. Mocca cringed away, blanching.

  “Understand this,” Sheffu uttered. “The footwar, the Karnerians and Sainites, whatever Ghoukha has planned, all of it will pale in comparison to what Khoth-Kapira will do to this world when He breaks free. You are not here for money, Lenk. You are here because you need to be here.”