Sweat beaded on his brow as he knelt before the door, ears straining for any signs of approaching guards. Slowly, slowly, he admonished himself, probing the lock further. He'd yet to meet a lock that was his match, and he'd be damned if this would be the one to do it. Seconds turned to minutes, and those minutes seemed to stretch out interminably.
Finally, a soft snick told him that the lock had yielded to him – he still had the touch. Matt smiled and tucked the tools of his trade away. Still cautious, he unsheathed his dagger and held it at the ready as he reached for the handle. Celadon was a dangerous place and Matt hadn't kept his hide intact without having at least a modicum of respect for that danger. Even a locked room could hold a threat.
He pushed the door and it creaked open. Matt held his breath – the damned sound was loud enough to wake the dead! Peering through the small opening did no good. The room was as black as the pits below Harrson's Keep, and cold to boot. Bracing himself, Matt pushed into the room.
He could just make out a vague outline in the center of the room – a table, perhaps. The sudden squeal of door hinges alerted him to the fact that he was not alone in the murk. He tried to turn, but something smashed hard into the back of his skull. Pain overwhelmed him and blinding white lights danced before his eyes. Then everything went dark, truly dark.
***
He came back from the murky depths of unconsciousness to pain. His head ached and throbbed, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. Matt tried to open his eyes, but everything was blurry and indistinct. Vertigo washed over him and he snapped them shut once more.
What happened? He could feel something cold and sticky on the back of his neck. Matt tried to raise a hand to his head, but nothing happened.
Still groggy, he shook his head at the pain, and immediately noticed something else. He was leaning against something rough and hard that tore at his injured skull with the motion. What is this? He had his suspicions, though. Matt was becoming more aware now. Another attempt to raise his arms offered the same results. His hands were bound behind his back. As his faculties recovered, the rope biting into his wrists became obvious and painful.
He remembered the squeal of the door hinges and the blow to his head. Someone had surprised him, and Matt had a pretty good idea of just who that was.
Forcing his eyes open brought on another wave of vertigo, but Matt was determined. As his vision stopped swimming, he was able to take stock of his surroundings. Dim light illuminated the room, but the source of illumination was not immediately visible, because a huge stone table blocked his vision. It was a cold, white light, though, not the warm flicker of torches or candles.
The room was walled in stone, most of it rough and undressed. A flash of color told Matt all he needed to know – the red door through which he had entered, now shut tight, stood in the wall on his left. He was still in the treasure room, then. Glancing down to his belt told him his captor had taken his kit and his dagger.
A groan from his left made Matt whip his head around in alarm. The movement ignited agony in his skull, but he ignored it. Near him was another man, bound and lying on his side on the floor. A spill of dark hair hid the man's features from the thief, and the low light cloaked most of his body in shadow.
A scraping sound drew Matt's attention back to the rest of the room. Whatever it was came from beyond the table. It seemed that he should know the sound, but he could not place it. Footsteps echoed off the stone then, blocking out most of the scraping sounds. The footsteps drew nearer and Matt strained to catch a glimpse of his captor above the table.
A dark silhouette appeared. Whatever the light source was, it was behind the figure, and Matt was left with little but frustration; he could make out a fashionable coat, and the gleaming hilt of a sword on the figure's hip. His frustration ended a moment later when the figure spoke.
"Ah, Matthias, I'm pleased to see you're awake," Iharan's unctuous voice seemed to ooze around the room.
"So you did sell me out," Matt's voice came out as a croak. Iharan laughed, seeming to enjoy the scene.
"Sell you out? My dear man, I haven't sold you out at all! I practically opened the door for you myself!"
"And now? You'll hand me over to Sen, and then I'll hang." Matt's anger made his voice stronger.
"Sen? Pah! Why would I give you to that fool of a merchant? No, we have other plans for you."
"We?" Matt asked. "You mean the poor sot next to me?"
Iharan turned to stare at the man lying bound next to Matt. A strange look moved across his face; something hungry lurked beneath the servant's urbane façade.
"Him? No, Matthias, not him. Do you really not know who that is?" The servant seemed in a horrible good humor.
"No, should I?" Matt wondered if it really mattered.
"Ah!" Iharan moved forward to stand before the man, one hand extended toward him. "I present the great merchant himself!" Iharan executed a courtly bow. Matt felt his face redden at the mockery.
At the name, the prone man lifted his head, the dark hair that had hidden his features fell away and Matt’s pulse raced. It really was Sen! Matt had never been this close to the man before, but he'd seen him from a distance. There was no mistaking that long, hooked nose, or the square jaw. It seemed that Iharan really was telling the truth and Celadon's richest merchant lay bound and wounded on the floor of his own treasure room.
Matt's surprise must have showed on his face. "Shocked? Don't be. It won't be the last revelation of the night, I'm certain."
"Why, Iharan? What's the point of any of this?"
Iharan giggled. It was a strange, high-pitched titter, and it immediately set Matt's teeth on edge. Is he sane? None of this seemed like the actions of a sane man. Could that explain it?
Another voice answered Matt's question, though, a deep yet somehow feminine voice. "Because I told him to. It must be so." There was something wrong with that voice. Matt craned his neck trying to get a view of the speaker, but the bulk of the stone table hid her well. At the sound, Sen's eyes closed tight, his lips moving. Is he praying? The thought chilled him.
"Iharan, we're being rude. We must have proper introductions, after all," the voice continued.
Matt was not at all sure that he wanted to be introduced to the speaker, especially not given the merchant's reaction. He was curious, though. What was it that put such fear into Sen, who by all accounts was as ruthless as they came? He did not have to wait long to find out.
Iharan stepped toward Matt. The thief saw what was coming, but could not avoid it. Iharan brought his foot forward in a vicious kick that connected squarely with Matt's ribs. Agony flared and Matt found himself curled in a ball trying to protect his side. His head ached abominably, but the pain in his side was greater. Once Matt rolled over, Iharan reached down and grasped the rope that bound the thief's hands together, pulling it upward. Matt had no choice but to stand, or risk dislocating his shoulders.
Matt staggered to his feet, pain flaring through every inch of his body. Iharan put a hand to the small of his back and shoved him hard toward the stone table. With his hands behind him, Matt could not catch himself, and slammed hard into the edge of the tabletop.
He sprawled over the top of the table, feeling the cold marble press against the side of his face. Beatings were not new to Matt; the guards of the night watch were not particularly lenient, but the combined pain in his head and side blurred his vision. He lay there, gasping, until Iharan grabbed a handful of his hair and jerked his head up.
"Look!” Iharan's face was close, his breath hot on Matt's ear. Spittle flew from the servant's lip, spattering Matt's cheek. He obeyed; he had little choice.
Across the room was a woman of immense beauty. She was about a hand shorter than Matt himself, with long blonde hair. The term statuesque seemed invented to describe her specifically, and her attire left very little to the imagination. Matt felt his cheeks flush – just looking at her felt immoral. But looking away did not seem possible.
There wa
s something wrong, something off with the image of stunning beauty, though. Shapes writhed just beneath the surface of her skin and moved along her alabaster arms like mice beneath a rug. As Matt stared in horror, globules of some black substance oozed out of the corner of one eye, swam across its surface and retreated beneath the lid once more. Yes, there's definitely something wrong here, he thought.
In fact, the longer he looked the more wrong she appeared. She smiled at him and it was a rictus grin, filled with hate and darkness. Matt gasped and staggered backward, bumping into Iharan, who chuckled and then shoved him forward again. "What's wrong, Matthias?" he asked, still chuckling.
"What is this?" Matt demanded, fear settling like a stone in his gut. This was madness.
"Introductions are important, aren't they my dear Iharan?" the woman asked in her strange voice. She took a step toward Matt and it was all he could do not to turn tail and flee. She moved… wrong. There was no symmetry, no grace to her movements. It was like watching a puppet on a string. And the puppeteer had had one too many ales.
"Who are you, then?" Matt meant to sound belligerent, but it came out weak.
Iharan put his hand on Matt's shoulder once more, and the thief tensed, expecting another shove, perhaps one directly into the arms of that…thing. No shove came. Instead, Iharan said, "Matthias, allow me to introduce Lady Emma Sen, the wife of our dear Torgen."
"I thought she was dead?" Matt asked.
Both Iharan and the woman laughed. Matt did not see the humor here. Iharan enlightened him, "She is."
"Enough of this," Emma abruptly cut in, "Iharan, we have preparations to make and no more time to waste. Put him against the wall, the time of transition nears."
"Of course, Handmaiden," Iharan did as his mistress bid, and thrust Matt against the wall.
With his hands still bound, Matt found it impossible to keep his balance and fell, scraping the side of his face on the rough stone. Iharan turned on his heel and left the room, the door booming loudly as it slammed shut. The horror that claimed to be Emma Sen jerked her way back to the other side of the room, and was finally hidden from Matt's sight by the enormity of the table. Almost immediately, the scraping sounds commenced once more. Matt found himself alone with Torgen Sen, who seemed a bit more alert now.
Matt gave the older man an appraising glance. Sen had a powerful build, even now in his later years. His dark hair was shot through with gray, and a short beard covered his square jaw.
Matt caught the merchant's eye and then asked, "What's going on here, Sen?"
Torgen Sen righted himself a bit more so he could turn a hard, bloodshot gaze on the thief. "I'd say it's none of your concern, but it seems it is now. Still, I question how much honesty I owe someone who was attempting to relieve me of my money."
Matt had the good grace to blush. He had not counted on Sen knowing who he was or what he had come for. "How did you know?"
"I've been here most of the day. They," he indicated Emma with a jut of his chin, "were discussing things. Your name came up, as did what you were doing. Iharan thought himself very clever."
It was all a setup, and the taste was bitter. Matt prided himself on being a good judge of character. One had to be in order to survive the streets of Celadon without becoming a slave, a prisoner or ending up dead in the gutter. He had been wrong, though. The beauty of the plan and the enormity of the prize had blinded him. Matt should have known better.
"Don't feel too bad, lad," Torgen said suddenly. "Were our situations reversed, who's to say I wouldn't have done the same? I wasn't always a merchant. There was a time when I was even poorer than you."
Matt frowned, disbelieving.
"No, it's true," the merchant even smiled a bit, remembering. "But it doesn't matter. Now, we're both on even footing – both doomed. It won't be long." He trailed off into silence, staring across the room, brows furrowed.
"Tell me what's happening here. What is that… abomination?"
Torgen Sen said nothing for a moment, frowning as he stared into the middle distance. "I said I wasn't always wealthy, and I meant it. I grew up around Lightner's End, down past the Gull's Head." Matt knew the area. Lightner's End was bad news for anyone. If it were true, then Matt needed to revise his opinion of Sen. He leaned back further, and felt a stab of pain. A sharp outcrop stuck out from the wall. As slowly as possible, he shifted his position and began sawing the ropes binding his wrists against the stone.
"I was always big and strong – the strongest of the lot," Sen continued, a half smile on his lips. "I started out with Fillian's band of cutthroats at a young age. I was a brawler, muscle for Fillian's operations. Ah, the heads I knocked in those days! If I'd stayed there, I'd have died young, on the tip of some nameless guard's blade or yet another body dumped in the Cel."
"Emma saved me. I saw her one day, striding along the Street of Heads as though she owned the whole damn place. She paid no mind to the catcalls and jeers around her, no. And she had her own steel in case things went south. I swore then and there that I would make her mine, and I did."
Matt listened silently for a few moments and then asked, "Who is that, Sen? What is it?"
The merchant looked down, staring hard at the floor now. When he spoke, it seemed as though his voice came from a great distance. "She is my wife, Emma Sen. But it is also… something else; something vile wears her skin."
Torgen gave Matt a pleading look, as though searching for the thief's understanding. "Emma sickened last year. The doctors leeched her – bled her dry almost. The priestess of Tosia burned healing incense and used her balms. It was all for nothing. She died in my arms."
Matt had a very bad feeling about where this story was going. He pressed harder against the stone outcrop; the jagged edges cut into his wrist as well as the rope. It did not matter; he had to get out of here.
"I couldn't accept it. If not for her…I could not accept her death." Sen broke off. When he continued again, his voice was firmer, his pace faster.
"I put all of my resources into finding someone who could help. Finally, I found a priest of Angour who said he could perform the deed I wanted. He warned me that it would cost me dearly. Of course, I didn't care. He completed the rite a day later, here in this very house. The next day, my Emma sat up and spoke to me!"
"You didn't think that there was something wrong with ripping the veil and bringing someone back?" Matt demanded. His skin crawled at the thought.
The merchant ignored him. "Everything seemed fine. She was different, but that was to be expected. She'd died, for the gods' sakes! I ignored her…strangeness for as long as I could. Until the servants started going missing. I…I caught her then, one night, down in the kitchens. Poor Grace! Emma had her on the floor, was on top of her. I didn't know what was going on at first. I rushed to her, thinking something was wrong with Grace. Then I saw; gods did I see! She was lapping Grace's blood from a gaping hole in her throat. There was even a bit of Grace dangling from Emma's mouth, caught between her teeth. I'd interrupted her feasting."
Matt fought nausea at the image of Emma chewing through some servant woman's throat and sawed faster on the ropes. Sen continued his tale. "I was careful to keep her locked up after that. Fired the staff, too – couldn't have anyone about who knew, you see."
Another strand parted on Matt's bonds. Freedom was close; he sawed harder.
"When she started getting passed locked doors, I had to take further steps. That's when I hired Iharan to craft that door – the finest wards in Celadon, he said!" Sen hung his head.
Without a sound, the ropes binding Matt's hands together parted. He hesitated. Should he make a break for it? Should he try to free the merchant? He owed the man nothing – this mess was Sen's fault! Still, he hesitated, and that hesitation was his undoing. Before he could act, the door swung inward, admitting Iharan carrying a heavy black bag. His chance to make a clean escape ruined, Matt sat where he was, careful to keep his hands behind his back, out of sight.
Iharan
spared a quick glance for the two prisoners, and then carried his burden toward the table. The sack swayed slowly with Iharan's forward motion, the bottom straining with the weight of whatever it carried. The servant hoisted the bag and gently set it on the table. He turned toward the opposite side from Matt, where Emma Sen still lay hidden.
"Come, Handmaiden, the time is at hand," he bent down to help Emma stand. She rose jerkily, blood smeared around her mouth. Matt stared in horrid fascination. Iharan noticed him staring and laughed. "The Handmaiden requires flesh, and you should get used to it. You will be the next step in the chain. The old Handmaiden will die, while planting her seed in your guts. You will be more than our poor Handmaiden, though. You will be reborn as Goshaan, herself!" Iharan grinned, madness in his eyes.
Matt recoiled in horror. Goshaan – the ancient goddess of death and desecration, the Eater of Worlds, the Black Lady. Legend said the First Gods banded together and banished her to an eternal prison because of her boundless appetite. Beside him, Sen asked, "What of me, Iharan? Will you kill me now?"
"You, Sen? I will not slay you, no." Iharan turned to stare at Matt once more. "Goshaan will need to feast when She is reborn."
Iharan helped Emma steady herself against the table, and then proceeded to empty the bag. He removed a large copper bowl, heavily embossed with strange designs. Next came a vial of oil. Last, he removed a large, black dagger from the sack. He stared at the corroded blade for a moment, gaze loving, before laying it on the table next to the other implements.
Iharan poured the oil into the copper bowl, careful not to let any of the liquid splash beyond the rim. He pulled flint and steel from a pouch on his belt and struck a shower of sparks into the copper bowl. The oil caught fire immediately, waves of greasy, black smoke rising from the flames. Emma hissed, alarmed, and backed away a step.
"It's necessary, Handmaiden, the blade must be purified," Iharan soothed her.
Celadonian Tales Vol: 1 Blood and Brass Page 3
