by Ian Whates
What could she tell the girl this eve? In truth, she'd long since run out of stories about her own life, even the heavily embellished ones, and had all but exhausted the gossip she remembered from friends and acquaintances of those days. She was having to rely increasingly on pure invention and sensed that even Kara was starting to doubt some of the more outlandish claims; she resolved to be less flamboyant this time around.
They prepared the evening meal and ate in comfortable silence for the most part – cold meat, day-old bread and watered ale all slipped down a treat. This standard fare was then supplemented with a pickled egg each from the jar that Sander had brought as a gift. These proved less successful.
"Thaiss, that's disgusting!" Kara said, screwing up her face at the sharpness.
"Yet they're considered a great delicacy up-City," the apothaker lied. She'd been able to taste nothing but vinegar when she bit into her own egg and could well understand why Sander was reduced to giving these revolting things away.
"Really?" The girl examined hers with obvious suspicion.
"Yes, really; an acquired taste, perhaps, but delicious when your palate is accustomed to them." The old woman nibbled daintily at the pallid ovoid. They couldn't afford not to eat everything that came their way, and she was hanged if she was going to be left with an entire jar of the wretched eggs to polish off by herself.
Kara copied her, gingerly biting off morsels of vinegarinfused white, but she still wrinkled her nose every time she chewed.
The meal was soon finished and dishes cleared away. As they settled in for the evening by the hearth, the apothaker said casually, "Did I ever tell you about my cousin Andresh?"
"No," the girl said, "I don't think so." Actually the old woman was quite sure so, since she'd never had a cousin Andresh.
"Well, a bit of a black sheep was Andresh – a distant cousin, I should stress, on my mother's side. Not often talked about, which is doubtless why I haven't mentioned him before. Anyway, he kept some very suspect company did cousin Andresh, so much so that on one particular occasion his exploits came to the attention of the Kite Guard…"
"What was that?" The girl looked up sharply.
"What was what?" the old woman replied, a little testily because she was just getting into her stride.
"I thought I heard something from out back."
The apothaker frowned. She hadn't heard a thing but was willing to concede that her ears weren't all they used to be and that the youngster's were by far the sharper.
She stood up, cocked her head but still couldn't hear anything. "What did it sound like?"
"Something breaking… or being broken."
The old woman grunted. Street-nicks most like. She knew the local gangs and paid her dues like everyone else, but so much had changed since the riots and the fighting that all bets were now off. She wouldn't put it past some opportunist or other to break in looking to steal her distillations in the hope of increasing their chances of thieving and dodging the razzers. Best way to deal with this was to teach them a lesson; if they got away with it once they'd only come back for more. Signalling Kara to stay where she was, the apothaker picked up an iron poker from the cold hearth and headed purposefully towards the curtain at the back of the room. Beyond lay the rest of their meagre home: a short hallway ending at the back door with two internal doors leading off; the first opening into the cramped room where both women slept and the second to a slightly larger space with its apparatus and jars of ingredients – their workroom. The latter was doubtless where the intruder was at that very moment, creeping around and trying to decide what was what.
Gripping her fire iron tightly, the old woman pulled aside the curtain, ready to storm down the hall and into the back room, already rueing the damage which she felt certain would result from the incident, only to be confronted by a swirling mass of darkness born of some deranged nightmare. The stench was the first thing that struck her; a smell of dank decay, of something rotting – the smell of death. And the darkness had a face; eyes which fastened on her and seemed to tug at her very being, as if drawing the soul out of her body and pulling it inexorably towards that mass of twisting shadow.
She shuffled a few involuntary steps back into the room as the thing advanced, shrinking away from its touch. The nightmare form moved swiftly and the apothaker pressed herself against the wall, cowering, wishing the wall would absorb her, let her pass through. The apparition brushed her in passing, seeming to have no substance, no physical pressure, yet its touch felt as cold as a tomb.
The apothaker was wrenched from her funk by a scream. Kara! With a conscious effort of will she forced her arm to lift, raising the fire poker which still somehow dangled from her limp right hand. Desperation lent her energy. She prised her body from the wall and stared at where Kara was sitting. The girl had disappeared, enveloped in roiling black mist, yet that nebulous swirling now took on a semblance of form and the apothaker fancied she could make out the hazy shape of a woman standing over Kara's chair, arms spread as if to embrace chair and girl alike. If so, the figure was draped in a large black cloak, unlike any garment she had ever seen before. It billowed and flowed and floated, never still, as if constantly disturbed by breezes and gusts that simply weren't there.
The apothaker had no idea what was being done to her protégée, but she doubted any good could ever come out of this walking nightmare.
"Leave her!" she roared, surprised at the strength of her own voice.
The thing looked at her; definitely a woman's face, though distorted beyond anything that could still be called human. As the eyes turned to her, she again felt that awful sense of something pulling at her inner being. And then the creature flowed towards her.
The apothaker caught a brief glimpse of a withered, limp form where Kara had sat, and then gagged as the awful smell grew stronger and the darkness was in her face, twin pits of hell staring into her eyes.
"Too old, too spent," a voice akin to the crackle of dried paper said. "Your talent's weak and fickle; not worth the effort of taking. The girl, though… she was delicious." The last syllable emerged as a protracted, sibilant hiss, and was accompanied by a stomach-churning waft of fetid breath and the sense of something stroking her chin.
The apothaker recoiled and gagged, suddenly terrified beyond all reasoning.
Without warning the dreadful presence withdrew, floating across the room and past Kara's chair, where a desiccated husk now sat, and onwards towards the door. The apothaker was able to breathe again, to think. She stumbled forwards, legs shaky, the poker dropping from numb fingers as she stared at the body in the chair. Moments ago this had been a beautiful, vibrant teenager, bursting with life and energy – a young girl poised on the threshold of realising her potential and only just beginning to learn how to enjoy life. In seconds all of that had been snatched away, snuffed out in the blink of an eye, to leave behind a wasted, white-haired cadaver, a vessel drained of everything that had made Kara so beautiful and alive.
"You brecking monster," she screamed at the thing's back, "you've killed her!" The old woman couldn't bring herself to touch the ashen husk that now occupied the chair, for all that she wanted to reach out and hold her precious Kara, to cradle her in her arms. At first she had hoped, somehow, that the girl might yet live, that she was merely damaged and could be nursed back to health, but it was immediately obvious that all hint of life had gone.
What now? How could she possibly survive without the girl's talent and the preparations it infused? The tears came unbidden; for Kara and for herself.
The living nightmare barely paused. It gathered before the front door, which abruptly exploded outward, and the thing flowed through, to vanish into the thinner darkness of the night.
Irrationally, the old woman followed, stopping in the vacant doorway to shout in the nightmare's wake, "Come back! You might as well take me as well! What am I supposed to do without her? You've already killed me, so come back and finish the job!"
But the
killer had gone.
The old woman suddenly realised that she wasn't alone out here, as a face turned towards her, doubtless startled by her shouts. The apothaker nearly screamed anew in shock, but stopped herself, fascinated by this new apparition. Wide eyes stared out of a face covered in a pattern of intricate runes and markings. She suddenly realised what this had to be. A Tattooed Man! She saw others now, slipping through the pools of light and shadow cast by the street lamps. They were questing, hunting. Instinct told her that they were after her monster. She dashed back into the house, opened a cupboard and snatched up a particular phial before returning to the shattered door. She looked out expecting to see the Tattooed Man or someone similar but they'd moved on and instead she was confronted by a wiry black-clad girl, short sword clutched in either hand.
The apothaker gasped anew. "You're one of them, aren't you? The Death Queens." The legendary warrior sisters said to rule the Tattooed Men.
"Get back inside, mother. This isn't a night to be outdoors."
So young. "It's been here," she blurted, desperate that the girl should understand, "that thing. It killed my Kara." The tears flowed again, as the image of the desiccated body in the room at her back flashed through her mind's eye. She wasn't ashamed of her grief and held her head high.
"I'm sorry… for your loss." The girl was obviously uneasy, wanted to be away. "You're not alone, but when we catch it, we'll claim revenge for you and everyone else, I promise."
"Here, take this." The old woman thrust the precious phial towards this girl. She looked to be no more than a few years older than Kara, yet there was a fire all her own glowing within this feral girl's breast. The apothaker sensed that this mere slip of a thing, this Death Queen, might actually stand a chance of killing the creature. There was a talent in her, nothing like Kara's, but something bright and strong all the same.
The girl stared at her as though she were mad.
"I'm an apothaker, and a good one," she explained, pride refusing to be dismissed so readily.
"Yeah, I'm sure, but just go back indoors…"
"No, you listen to me! I might not be able to hold a sword and could never hunt that thing down, but I can do this much. In here is the most potent elixir of luck I've ever distilled. Genuine talent went into this; not mine you understand, Kara's; and she was special, really special. Why else do you think that creature came here?"
The girl hesitated for an instant, then nodded and, after transferring one of the swords so that both were held in her left hand, snatched the phial.
"Drink this and you'll catch that thing, and beat it, and kill it."
"Thank you. Now, please…"
"I know, I know, I'm going back inside." Yet still the woman lingered. "One thing, before I do, though..."
"What?" The word was snapped, the girl's patience clearly at an end.
The apothaker had suddenly realised she didn't even have a label to attach to her hate, didn't know what to call the creature that had just stolen her life away. "This monster, does it have a name?"
The girl smiled grimly. "Yeah, it has a name all right, one straight out of a children's tale, maybe even a story you threatened your Kara with on nights when she was being stubborn and wilful and wouldn't go to bed. It's called the Soul Thief."
Being back among the Tattooed Men felt odd. In fact, if Kat were to be entirely honest, it felt odd being alive at all. She had returned to the Pits expecting to die.
The two of them, these sister-strangers, had walked back from the Pits in silence, M'gruth between them. Each refusing to acknowledge the other. Then Kat had found herself back in a world she thought she'd abandoned forever – that of the close-knit tribe known as the Tattooed Men.
She could never have actually killed Charveve – or Chavver as she preferred to be called – while she had no doubt that her sister would happily have slain her. Therein lay the vital difference. Kat was prepared to fight with every scrap of strength and will at her command to avoid being killed herself, but that was never going to be enough; not when her sister was prepared to go that crucial step further.
Kat was under no illusions. She knew their fight to the death wasn't over but had merely been put to one side while the pair of them concentrated on hunting down the Soul Thief. Afterwards, they'd finish it; one way or another.
All of which gave the present circumstances a surreal edge, even though everything was so familiar in many ways, like stepping back in time. Around her people moved with unhurried efficiency. The sounds of provisions being shifted and weapons readied – the rap of wooden crates on solid floor, the hiss of blade edge on whetstone, the gentle slap of feet and creak of leather harness – the Tattooed Men were preparing for war. Here was Shayna fussing over her wounds, there was Charveve balling out M'gruth. The old crowd, together again; except for Rayul, her closest friend among all of them.
Rayul would never again be part of such gatherings. Because Kat had killed him. No one else here knew that as yet. Now there was a conversation she wasn't looking forward to.
Her wounds were mere scratches but Shayna brushed aside all such protests. "Even scratches can become infected."
Kat knew better than to argue, so surrendered to the healer's ministrations, relaxing as the older woman placed gentle hands around the edge of each wound. Warmth emanated from those hands, coursing through her body and producing a sense of tremendous wellbeing. She had to fight the urge to close her eyes and simply drift off to sleep, struggling to stay focused so that she could watch as each cut and minor wound closed and rapidly disappeared, leaving no more than a faint scar. Kat had seen this done many times before, but the sight never ceased to amaze her.
"That's some talent," she said, more drowsily than intended.
Shayna shrugged. "It's nothing really. All I do is speed up the body's natural healing processes."
"And you call that nothing? Seems pretty special to me."
"We're the Tattooed Men, Katerina. There's no one else like us in the whole of the city, most likely the world, so we're all special, even you. Especially you."
Kat grinned, willing to overlook the use of her full name – Shayna was one of the few she'd let get away with such things. "Tell that to my sister sometime, will you?"
"I've tried, believe me, I've tried." So saying, the healer stood up and moved away, leaving Kat to rouse herself to full wakefulness once more.
Chavver was in her element, snapping out orders and organising the Tattooed Men with well-practiced ease. Kat wondered whether her sister's injuries had benefited from Shayna's healing hands as hers had and, if so, why the older girl wasn't acting as woozy as she herself felt. Probably another manifestation of her famed iron will. After all, a queen couldn't be seen to show weakness in front of her subjects.
Well, anything she could do, Kat could match. So thinking, she pushed her body upright and swung her feet off the bench, planting them firmly on the floor, before forcing herself to stand. After a moment to make sure she wasn't going to wilt back onto the bench again, she strode purposefully towards her sister. Chavver turned at her approach and favoured her with a withering "Oh, so you're still here are you?" look.
"What about me?" Kat demanded. "And don't even think of trying to leave me out of this, Chav."
For an instant Kat's gaze locked with her sister's and she saw the hatred that still burned in the depths of eyes so like her own, then the older girl's focus shifted, sliding past her, and she called out, "M'gruth – Rel and Kat are with you," not even deigning to acknowledge her younger sibling.
Kat glanced around towards M'gruth, who stared back at her wide-eyed, clearly not relishing the prospect of giving orders to someone who had once led the Tattooed Men, but Kat smiled to reassure him. She couldn't care less about status. All that mattered was that she was involved, that she would have a chance to hunt down the abomination that had murdered her mother.
Besides, did Chavver really reckon that M'gruth had the balls to order her about? She suppressed a s
mile as she turned away and went to make her own preparations, determining to grab a bite to eat at the same time – nothing too heavy with the night that lay ahead, but she was going to need energy and plenty of it.
Night time and the tattooed Men were out in force. Kat had almost forgotten how good it felt to run with them; the sense of casual power, the feeling that nothing could harm her. In the year or more since she'd left them Kat had become a solitary skulker, flitting through the under-City like a ghost, moving across the territories of several established street-nick gangs, often unseen, always unchallenged. This had enabled her to believe that she was apart and somehow superior to the nicks and other petty denizens of the streets as she watched their furtive comings and goings without being involved.
Running with the Tattooed Men was akin to that in many ways but more so. Arrayed to either side of her, strung out in a long line so that they were in eyeshot courtesy of the under-City's flickering lanterns – if at times just barely so – were men of similar competence to herself. They ranged across territories with impunity. No need to skulk now; only a fool would consider standing in their way. The Tattooed Men were hunting. Like some far-flung human net they trawled the streets of the City Below.
