The Ragged Man

by Lloyd, Tom

  Fast way to be killed, that, he thought, watching the taciturn man suddenly become animated, like a restless wolf. Orolay’s got it like me; maybe he’ll make a decent devotee after all.

  ‘Come,’ Corl breathed, savouring the delicious sensation of the word slipping out through his lips.

  Isen moved forward so quickly only his sharpened reactions stopped him being hit with the door as Corl opened it and went through. Isen, desperate to be moving, was almost hopping behind Corl as the smaller man walked down the dark, narrow staircase to the open doorway of the tenement block. Laughter rang out from rooms on both sides: families celebrating together, having exhausted themselves dancing and cheering on the many entertainments.

  The Chief Steward had supposedly distributed thousands of gold crowns so the population might drink to the memory of Lord Isak. Corl hadn’t been able to tell if there had been genuine affection for the young white-eye, but his name was certainly being shouted in toast, so he guessed Chief Steward Lesarl would be satisfied. The cults were keeping a low profile this year - that was understandable given the place was teeming with soldiers ready to forcibly disarm any penitent forces stupid enough to get caught.

  Corl chuckled to himself. Things certainly weren’t dull around Tirah, not now at any rate, with the so-called peace treaty with the Menin overshadowed by the assassination attempt on Count Vesna. Some said it had been a beast from the Waste, but Corl took that with a pinch of salt; a friend heard it was Corl himself dead at the sword of Count Vesna - the man damn nearly shat himself with fright when he walked into a tavern to find Corl drinking at the bar.

  It had been a hard few months, blood being spilled on all sides, but today was Midsummer’s day and the people were damn well going to celebrate. The flutter of cloth above their heads was like a riot of swooping birds. That suited Corl, he thought, as he led them into the street to the tavern on the other side. Lots of crowds to get lost in, none of ’em sober enough to notice much. The door was wide open and some drunk was leading a song within, but there was also a tapped barrel outside manned by a man with thick arms and a thicker waist. He was taller than any of the three assassins, and his hair hung about his shoulders in many braids, each of which was tied with a red ribbon. Corl noticed the man had one finger missing, and a mass of scars down his wrist.

  A veteran, he thought, one who cashed in better than I did when he retired. He inclined his head respectfully to a fellow ex-soldier and ordered two beers for his comrades and a jug of wine for himself. The desert-robe trembled in the breeze, flattening against his front and leaping madly behind him. Corl could feel the air rush past his body, given form by the long, smooth cloth.

  ‘You seen battle?’ the barman said cheerily, clearly having sampled his own wares during the day. ‘Got soldier’s eyes, y’have.’

  ‘Aye, more’n enough,’ Corl confirmed. While the other two drank thirstily, he contented himself with running his fingers down the side of the fired clay jug. ‘But since it’s Midsummer we’re for Stock’s Circle, find a more friendly tussle.’

  That earned Corl a wide grin. ‘Was a time I’d join yer; been seven year since I woke up after Midsummer happy an’ no damn clue where I was!’ The man laughed, lost for a moment in the memory. Stock’s Circle was where many folk gravitated to on Midsummer if they were looking for someone to celebrate with.

  Corl gestured to the tavern. ‘Well, marriage happens to us all, so my da used to say.’

  Laughter boomed around the street as the barman roared his agreement and tossed his knotted hair back from his face. ‘Damn right,’ he agreed and thumped Corl on the shoulder. ‘That obvious?’

  ‘Nah, I saw your offerings earlier.’ Corl pointed up at the garlands hanging above the doorway and from the stone faces peering down from the corners of the roof. ‘They’re a woman’s work, not a soldier’s.’

  The barman looked up, puzzled for a moment. It was traditional on Midsummer to put out offerings to appease the city’s gargoyles and spirits, and whatever else might be roaming the rooftops and night-time streets. The garlands were bound hoops of hazel and elder twigs with beef bones or pigskin in the centre, each one threaded with thin strips of dyed cloth like to those hanging down over the cobbled street.

  ‘Hazel leaves, friend? Your wife knows a witch, I’d guess, to use that. And anyways, you’d have just soaked rags in blood and hung them, not gone to all the trouble of colouring ’em yoursel’.’

  The barman slowly nodded. ‘You ain’t been drinking enough this night,’ he said reproachfully before the smile returned to his face. ‘That’s better attention than a man’ll wanna pay at Stock’s Circle.’

  Corl agreed and held out payment. ‘Slept off the first round - time to top misself up!’

  The clatter and stomp of boots ended the conversation, as a horde of shouting, laughing people spilled around the corner. Corl thanked the barman and turned away, twitching aside his shawl to take a long gulp of the wine before the parade arrived. The parade always passed this way before winding up at Stock’s Circle, and Stock’s Circle was where one of the several Harlequins currently performing in Tirah would be until well into the morning.

  Isen cheered and walked out into the centre of the street, arms stretched wide, to the jeers and yells of the folk in the parade.

  The Wanton Woman and her Beasts: this same parade was happening in every Farlan town and village, in some form or another. There’d be half a dozen at least in Tirah, but in the poorer districts like this they were invariably more fun.

  The parade was led by a wagon made up to look like a chariot and dragged along by more than a dozen men, some of whom were so drunk they couldn’t even walk in a straight line. The Wanton Woman herself was standing in the driver’s seat, and behind Corl could see a tangle of limbs poking out - someone getting a head-start on the fun, obviously.

  Corl looked at the driver again - and gave a start. He couldn’t recognise anyone under the black feathered mask - a woman’s face outlined in white with full lips and pronounced cheeks, an echo of the ceremonial headdresses the eunuch-priests of Etesia wore for ceremonies - but when the wind caught the cloak, he recognised the diamond-pattern patchwork: it was remarkably similar to that of a Harlequin.

  That’s a bad omen, Corl thought as he approached the wagon.

  ‘Beasts!’ the Wanton Woman bellowed, to roars of approval from the screaming rabble. ‘More beasts for my wagon!’

  Laughing, Orolay and Isen grabbed at the traces of the wagon, shoving aside a couple of the more hopelessly drunk, who left without complaint, having spied the barrel of beer nearby.

  ‘Drink, you harlot!’ Corl shouted back at the Wanton Woman, ‘you need a man riding up here!’ Without waiting for a reply Corl hauled himself up to stand beside her and offered her the jar of wine. As the crowd behind booed at his impertinence, the Wanton Woman regarded him a moment, then reached forward and grabbed him by the crotch. Corl yelped as she squeezed a shade harder than necessary, but the gesture won the crowd’s approval and their booing turned to a swell of cheering and vulgar suggestions.

  ‘You’ll do!’ the Wanton Woman announced, releasing Corl and taking a swig of the wine he’d offered. She leaned closer and Corl realised the mask had a dark hood attached to it, hiding the fact her hair was cut so short underneath it - he had more on his chin. Her breath swept sweet and hot across his face. ‘You’ll get your lift, but no ride less it’s from one o’ those in the back, hear me?’

  Corl nodded and she gave him a friendly slap on the shoulder. Her strength took him by surprise and the gesture nearly knocked him off the driver’s seat, but she only laughed and yelled for her beasts to march on.

  ‘And keep an eye on the fat one,’ she muttered as she continued to wave and blow kisses at onlookers, ‘he likes ta get rough - he does it again, I’ll cut his bloody nuts off.’

  Corl looked behind him at the half-dozen men and woman in the back of the wagon. They all appeared to be enjoying themselves; one ent
irely naked woman was riding a gasping bean-pole of a youth, her elbows on his shoulders and his head pressed against her breasts. At the back was one far fatter than the rest. He was shirtless, with his belly hanging out; he and another man were fondling a beautiful woman dressed like a dancing girl.

  He faced the front again, took the wine back from the driver and drank, long and slow, enjoying the sensation of the liquid slipping down his throat - until the driver grabbed it back. He looked around. Behind him, the fat man had unbuttoned the dancing girl’s blouse to expose her beautifully rounded breasts. In front of him Isen and Orolay looked perfectly happy straining away at the traces.

  He hopped into the back, shoved the fat man off the back of the wagon with his boot and bent over the dancing girl. He let the shawl drop from his face, trusting to darkness and drink that she’d not recognise the marks on his face, and kissed her, long and hard. She wrapped her arms around his head and the other man got the message and shifted to the side, joining the naked woman and her youth. The journey to Stock’s Circle was short, but deliciously sweet.

  When they arrived Corl took his time saying his goodbyes. Stock’s Circle was still full of people, doubtless waiting for the Wanton Woman to arrive and signal the culmination of the night’s fun. He felt the press of voices and movement all around, mingling with the salty taste of the dancing girl’s sweat and the heat of her body.

  Their destination had once been a place of punishment, but the pit at the centre of the crossroads had been converted for entertainment decades ago. Now steps led down into the pit, and when fruit was thrown it was only a commentary on the performance. On the eastern edge was a half-moon gallery a hundred yards long, occupied by taverns and eateries, and a renowned glassblower’s workshop. With food, drink and entertainment all close at hand, the Circle had become the natural heart of entertainment in this part of the city.

  Midsummer’s Day was a festival for the common folk, one of the few sanctioned by every cult that mattered, and a Harlequin was guaranteed to be here, performing for the masses. As an impatient Isen dragged Corl away from the delicious dancing-girl, who was still pouting prettily at him, a chill went down his spine. Their prey was singing bawdy songs, accompanied by a choir of hundreds. Corl’s ardour was immediately dampened; the dancing-girl vanished from his mind, replaced by the images of Kassalain in her temple.

  Once again he wondered about the strange nature of his commission: to kill a person who had no identity, who bore no allegiance and took no sides. Isen and Orolay had both been incredulous when he’d told them. The younger man had been outraged, while Isen had been mostly mystified. The three of them had debated the matter for hours, but when they reached no conclusion, Corl had decided to do what he always did: take the money and try not to think too hard about the victim. After all, there was always a reason, good or otherwise, even if Corl himself did not understand it and that was not much different to serving in the army.

  All the same, Corl could not help wondering: why a Harlequin? Who could possibly have a grudge against the blessed tellers of stories? What madman could imagine a Harlequin harming him, or posing a threat? It was foolish . . . but as he stood there, the swell of bodies pressing from all sides, Corl still found himself checking the weapons secreted around his body.

  ‘Coin all spends the same,’ he muttered, too quietly for Isen to hear properly. He waved Isen to silence as the song ended and the Harlequin started its last tale: one Corl had heard years back: the Goat and the God. They laughed as hard as anyone as the Harlequin acted out Vrest’s amorous mishaps as he took the form of a Billy-goat, booed with gusto at the theft of the prized doe and cheered at the hoofprints adorning the God’s buttocks afterwards . . . although Corl felt a vague sense of puzzlement as the story unfolded, the course of events differing to how he remembered them - but it was all too long ago to recall accurately, and Harlequins never forgot a single word, everyone knew that.

  The swell of laughter and cheering swept him up and Corl tried to ignore his qualms. The Harlequin took its bows and as the drummers started striking the first bars of the salute to the night, the brisk, heavy thump of the drums reminded Corl of a heartbeat and his thoughts returned to the night’s task. At his gesture, Isen and Orolay began to make their way around the pit to where the Harlequin was gathering its meagre possessions.

  As they crossed the open ground, a pair of fiddlers took up the mournful salute and the Harlequin was slipping away with only a few words of thanks and blessing from the grateful crowd, who were mostly listening, rapt, to the final song, an ancient tradition. It was Farlan custom for all who could afford it to offer a Harlequin food and lodging whenever it arrived in a town or city. Neighbours would bring gifts, to honour their presence; on Midsummer that was doubly important. Corl reckoned the Harlequin would have accepted an offer of bed and breakfast closer to the city gate, and as asking would be a bit obvious, he’d decided following the Harlequin was their best option. With luck the revelry would have died down before he reached his destination and they wouldn’t have to slaughter the whole household.

  Corl slung his arm around Isen’s neck, raised the jug of wine to the man’s lips and poured some down his front, roaring with laughter. He lurched into the middle of the street, keeping one eye on the Harlequin’s back even as he hugged Isen to him.

  ‘Easy now,’ he said in Isen’s ear, ‘you’re wound tight as a ratter - chase this one too hard and he’ll turn on us.’

  With that he lunged towards Orolay, shoving the jar into the young man’s hands, then falling to the ground and dragging Isen down on top of him. As the bigger man’s weight thumped down on him, Corl roared with drunken laughter and Orolay, catching on, quickly joined in.

  ‘You ain’t payin’ me ta play fool,’ Isen hissed, ‘use the boy fer that.’

  ‘Piss you on,’ Corl replied under his breath, theatrically struggling to his feet. ‘Pride’s easiest to lose, it’s everythin’ else as hurts.’

  Isen scowled and grabbed the wine off Orolay. ‘Lose yer own then,’ he said, and headed off down the street.

  Corl watched him go. Isen wasn’t giving up on the mission, he knew that, but the last thing he needed was the man trying to earn the fee alone. Whatever the reasons behind their commission, it wasn’t going to be easy - the biggest question was how they were going to get it done and remain alive. Corl was good with a knife, really good, but he wasn’t planning to tangle with a Harlequin unless he had a company of Ghosts at his side.

  Shame you’re not this good an actor, Corl thought as he watched Isen stamp away after the Harlequin, who was heading down a fork in the road, this is better than the happy drunks routine.

  ‘I’m sorry!’ he bawled after the other man with mock anguish. ‘Forgive me!’

  Corl ran a few steps forward, enough to make Isen flinch, before turning away and beckoning Orolay closer. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the Harlequin looking around, and seeing nothing but a drunken argument between friends. Corl splashed the remains of the jar of wine over the two of them so they were as stained and stinking as Isen.

  ‘Know any songs?’ he asked Orolay with a chuckle, but when the young man looked blank, Corl thumped him on the shoulder and said, ‘Hah, never mind, we’ll keep to the “drunken friends making up” routine.’ He cupped his mouth and shouted, ‘Balar, wait up! Don’t walk away!’ his voice echoing down the near-empty street. When they caught up with Isen, he pointed wordlessly after the Harlequin as it disappeared through a crumbling memorial arch heading towards the Golden Tower district. The street was empty other than them, and Corl felt the essence of Kassalain stir in his blood.

  ‘Perfect,’ Corl said, struggling to cast off the desert robes. ‘I’ll cut through the alleys and catch it on t’other side. You two keep following, ’case it turns away.’

  He didn’t wait for them to reply but set off at a sprint, slipping a longknife from its sheath as he moved alongside a building. There was an alley there that he knew
well, kept in near-total darkness by the tall buildings, which was a good cut-through to the Wood Gate crossroads - as long as you were willing to risk the chance of a footpad lurking in wait. This was his chance.

  He kept his knife low and ran as fast as he dared, keeping to the centre of the alley. Twenty yards in he heard a woman’s voice whisper in his ear - Kassalain, smelling murder in the air - and he dropped, tucking his head down into a roll, and slashed at the shadow moving to his right. The footpad yelped and fell back as Corl, already back on his feet, made up the ground in one step and lashed out, this time slicing open his ambusher’s hand. The blow drove the man back the way Corl had come and he saw him clearly for the first time, silhouetted against the mouth of the alley.

  No second blade, flashed through Corl’s mind as he grabbed the footpad’s injured arm, yanked him sideways and kicked the man’s legs out from under him.

  ‘Wait!’ the man gasped as he thumped to the ground, ‘please — !’ He broke off as he felt the edge of a blade at his throat.