Sure in execution and singular in purpose
Setting your head atop the spike
Last Day of the Man Sect
Sevelenatha of Genabaris
(cited in ‘Treatise on Untenable
Philosophies among Cults’
Genorthu Stulk)
Many children, early on, acquire a love of places they have never been. Often, such wonder is summarily crushed on the crawl through the sludge of murky, confused adolescence on to the flat, cracked pan of adulthood with its airless vistas ever lurking beyond the horizon. Oh, well, sometimes such gifts of curiosity, delight and adventure do indeed survive the stationary trek, said victims ending up as artists, scholars, inventors and other criminals bent on confounding the commonplace and the platitudes of peaceful living. But never mind them for now, since, for all their flailing subversions, nothing really ever changes unless in service to convenience.
Bainisk was still, in the sheltered core of his being, a child. Ungainly with growth, yes, awkward in a body with which he had not yet caught up, but he had yet to surrender his love of the unknown. And so it should be wholly understandable that he and young Harllo should have shared a spark of delight and wonder, the kind that wove tight between them so that not even the occasional snarl could truly sever the binding.
In the week following that fateful tear in the trust between them, Harllo had come to believe that he was once more truly alone in the world. Wounds scabbed over and scabs fell away to reveal faint scars that soon faded almost out of existence, and the boy worked on, crawling into fissures, scratching his way along fetid, gritty cracks in the deep rock. Choking at times on bad air, stung by blind centipedes and nipped by translucent spiders. Bruised by shifting stones, his eyes wide in the darkness as he searched out the glitter of ore on canted, close walls.
At week’s end, however, Bainisk was with him once more, passing him a jug of silty lakewater as he backed out of a fissure and sat down on the warm, dry stone of the tunnel floor, and in this brief shared moment the tear slowly began to heal, re-knitted in the evasiveness of their eyes that would not yet lock on to the reality of their sitting side by side – far beneath the world’s surface, two beating hearts that echoed naught but each other – and this was how young boys made amends. Without words, with spare gestures that, in their rarity, acquired all the necessary significance. When Harllo was done drinking he passed back the jug.
‘Venaz is on me all the time now,’ Bainisk said. ‘I tried it, with him again, I mean. But it’s not the same. We’re both too old for what we had, once. All he ever talks about is stuff that bores me.’
‘He just likes hurting people.’
Bainisk nodded. ‘I think he wants to take over my job. He argued over every order I gave him.’
‘People like him always want to take over,’ Harllo said. ‘And most times when other people see it they back off and let them. That’s what I don’t get, Bainisk. It’s the scariest thing of all.’
That last admission was uncommon between boys. The notion of being frightened. But theirs was not a normal world, and to pretend that there was nothing to fear was not among the few privileges they entertained. Out here, people didn’t need reasons to hurt someone. They didn’t need reasons for doing anything.
‘Tell me about the city again, Mole.’
‘There’s a haunted tower. My uncle took me to see it once. He has big hands, so big that when he holds yours it’s like your hand disappears and there’s nothing in the world could pull you apart. Anyway, there’s a ghost in that tower. Named Hinter.’
Bainisk set on him wide eyes. ‘Did you see it? Did you see that ghost?’
‘No, it was daytime. They’re hard to see in daytime.’
‘It’s dark enough down here,’ Bainisk said, looking round. ‘But I ain’t never seen a ghost.’
Harllo thought to tell him, then. It had been his reason for bringing up the story in the first place, but he found himself holding back yet again. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was because the skeleton wasn’t a true ghost. ‘Sometimes,’ he said, ‘the dead don’t go away. I mean, sometimes, they die but the soul doesn’t, er, leave the body. It stays where it is, where it always was.’
‘Was this Hinter like that?’
‘No, he was a real ghost. A spirit with no body.’
‘So what makes ghosts of some people but not others?’
Harllo shrugged. ‘Don’t know, Bainisk. Maybe spirits with a reason to stay are the ones that become ghosts. Maybe the Lord of Death doesn’t want them, or lets them be so they can maybe finish doing what they need to do. Maybe they don’t realize they’re dead.’ He shrugged again. ‘That’s what my uncle said. He didn’t know either, and not knowing made him mad – I could tell by the way he held my hand tighter.’
‘He got mad at a ghost?’
‘Could be. That’s what I figure, anyway. I didn’t say nothing to make him mad, so it must have been the ghost. His not knowing what it wanted or something.’
Harllo could well recall that moment. Like Bainisk, he’d asked lots of questions, amazed that such a thing as a ghost could exist, could be hiding, watching them, thinking all its ghost thoughts. And Gruntle had tried to answer him, though it was obviously a struggle. And when Harllo asked him if maybe his father – who was dead – might be a ghost out there somewhere far away, his uncle had said nothing. And when he asked if maybe his ghost father was still around because he was looking for his son, then Gruntle’s big hand squeezed tight and then tighter for a breath or two, not enough to actually hurt Harllo, but close. And then the grip softened once more, and Gruntle took him off to buy sweets.
He’d probably seen Hinter, looking out through one of the gloomy windows of the tower. He’d probably wanted to tell Hinter to go away and never come back. Like bad fathers did. Because maybe Harllo’s father wasn’t dead at all, since one time his real mother had said something about ‘putting the bastard away’, and though Harllo didn’t know the precise meaning of ‘bastard’ he’d heard it often enough to guess it was a word used for people no one liked having around.
But thinking about Gruntle made him sad, so instead he reached for the jug of water again and drank deep.
Bainisk watched him, and then rose. ‘There’s a new chute that’s been cleared. I was thinking maybe you could climb it, if you was rested up enough.’
‘Sure, Bainisk. I’m ready.’
They set out in silence. But this time the silence wasn’t uncomfortable, and Harllo felt such a wave of relief when he realized this that his eyes welled up for a moment. Silly, really, and dangerous besides. When he had a moment when Bainisk wasn’t looking, he quickly wiped his grimy cheeks and then dried the backs of his hands on his tunic.
Even had he been turned towards Harllo, Bainisk probably would not have noticed. His mind was stepping stealthily on to the worn stones of the path leading to Hinter’s Tower, so that he could see the ghost for himself. What a thing that would be! To see with his own eyes something that he had never seen before!
There in that amazing city so far away. Where all manner of wonders jostled with the crowds on all the bright streets. Where ghosts argued with landlords over rent. Where people had so much food they got fat and had to be carried around. And people didn’t hurt other people for no good reason, and people like Venaz got exactly what they deserved.
Oh yes, he did love that city, that place where he had never been.
Don’t be absurd. The modestly pudgy man in the red waistcoat is not so crass as to fish for weeping multitudes in the rendition of this moment, nor so awkward with purple intent. Give Kruppe some credit, you who are so quick to cast aspersions like hooks into a crowded pool (caught something, did you? No, dear friend, do not crow your prowess, ‘twas only this carp desperate to get out).
The water’s reflection is not so smooth; oh, no, not so smooth.
Is Bainisk’s city quaint, possibly even cute and heartwarming, in a softly tragic way? Not the point!
>
Some of us, you see (or don’t), still dream of that city. Where none of us has ever been.
That, dear ones, is the point.
Second guessing is murder. Or, depending on one’s point of view, suicide. Blend had found plenty of opportunity to consider such matters while lying bleeding on the floor of K’rul’s Bar. It had been close, and without Mallet around the prospects of a thorough healing of her wounds was something she would just have to live without. The Councilman, Coll, had sent over a local cutter with passing skills in common Denul, and he had managed to half knit the ruptured flesh and stem the flow of blood, and then had taken needle and gut to suture the wounds. All of which left Blend propped up on her bed, barely able to move.
K’rul’s Bar remained closed. What had once been a temple was now a crypt. From what Picker had told her, there wasn’t a patch of raw earth in the cellars below that wasn’t soft and queasy underfoot. The Elder God never had it so good.
Bluepearl and Mallet, both dead. The very idea of that left gaping holes that opened out beneath every thought, every feeling that leaked through her grim control. The bastards had survived decades of war, battle after battle, only to get cut down in their retirement by a mob of assassins.
The shock lingered, there in the echoes of empty rooms, the silences from all the wrong places, the bitter arguments that erupted between Antsy and Picker in the office or in the corridors. If Duiker remained resident – if he hadn’t fled – he was silent, witnessing, as any historian would, every opinion strapped down into immobility. And, it seemed, thoroughly uninterested in whether she – or any of them – lived or died.
The sunlight creeping through the shutters told her it was day, possibly late afternoon, and she was hungry and maybe, just maybe, they’d all forgotten her. She’d heard the occasional thump from the main floor below, a few murmured conversations, and was contemplating finding something to pound on the floor when she heard steps approaching along the corridor. A moment later her door opened and in strode Scillara, bearing a tray.
Something sweet and avid curled up deep in Blend’s gut, then squirmed at a succession of delicious thoughts. ‘Gods, you’re a sight. I was moments from slipping away, straight into Hood’s hoary arms, but now, all at once—’
‘You have reason to live, yes, all that. It’s tapu – I hope you don’t mind, but the only cuisine I know at all is Seven Cities, and little enough of that.’
‘They’ve got you cooking now?’
‘Pays my room and board. At least,’ she added as she set the tray down on Blend’s lap, ‘no one’s demanded I clear my tab.’
Blend looked down at the skewers of meat and vegetables and fruit. The pungent aroma of greenspice made her eyes water. ‘Money can go piss itself,’ she said.
Scillara’s eyes widened.
Blend shrugged, reaching for the first skewer. ‘We were never in this to get rich, love. It was just . . . something to do, a place to be. Besides, we’re not going to hold our hands out when it comes to you and Barathol, and Chaur. Gods below, you dragging Duiker off on a date kept the old fool alive. And Barathol and Chaur arrived like a mailed fist – from what I hear, just in time, too. We may be idiots, Scillara, but we’re loyal idiots.’
‘I imagine,’ Scillara said, pulling a chair close, ‘the Assassins’ Guild is not thinking of you as idiots at the moment. More like a hornet’s nest they regret kicking. Regret?’ She snorted. ‘That’s too mild a word. If you think you’re reeling, consider the Guild Master right now.’
‘He’ll recover,’ Blend said. ‘Us? I’m not so sure. Not this time.’
Scillara’s heavy-lidded eyes settled on Blend for a long moment, and then she said, ‘Picker was badly shaken. Still is, in fact. Time and again I see the colour drain from her face, I see her knees go weak, and she reaches out to grab hold of something. Middle of the night, she’s up and pacing the hallways – she acts like Hood’s at her shoulder these days—’
‘That’s just it, though, isn’t it? A few years ago and she’d be strapping on the armour and counting quarrels – we’d have to chain her down to keep her from charging off—’
‘You don’t get it, do you, Blend?’
‘What?’
‘Years ago, as you say, she was a soldier – so were you.
A soldier lives with certain possibilities. Needs to keep in mind what might happen at any time. But you’re all retired now. Time to put all that away. Time to finally relax.’
‘Fine. It takes a while to get it all back—’
‘Blend, Picker’s the way she is right now because she almost lost you.’
In the silence that followed that statement, Blend’s mind was awhirl. ‘Then . . .’
‘She can’t bear to come in here and see you the way you are. So pale. So weak.’
‘And that’s what’s keeping her from hunting the killers down? That’s ridiculous. Tell her, from me, Scillara, that all this going soft shit is, um, unattractive. Tell her, if she’s not ready to start talking vengeance, then she can forget about me. We’ve never run from anything in our lives, and as soon as I’m back on my feet, I plan on a rat hunt the likes of which the Guild has never seen.’
‘All right.’
‘Is this what all the arguing’s about? Her and Antsy?’
A nod.
‘Find me a High Denul healer, will you? I’ll pay whatever it takes.’
‘Fine. Now eat.’
The corpse still smelled of fermented peaches. Laid out on a long table in one of the back rooms, the Seguleh might have been sleeping one off, and Picker expected the ghastly warrior’s serenely closed eyes to flicker open at any moment. The thought sent shivers through her and she glanced over once more at Duiker.
‘So, Historian, you’ve done some thinking on this, some jawing with that bard and that alchemist friend of yours. Tell us, what in Hood’s name are all these pickled Seguleh doing in the cellar?’
Duiker frowned, rubbed at the back of his neck, and would not meet Picker’s hard stare. ‘Baruk didn’t take the news well. He seemed . . . upset. How many casks have you examined?’
‘There’s twelve of the bastards, including this one. Three are women.’
Duiker nodded. ‘They can choose. Warriors or not. If not, they cannot be challenged. Seems to relate to infant mortality.’
Picker frowned. ‘What does?’
‘Denul and midwifery. If most children generally survive, then mothers don’t need to birth eight or ten of them in the hopes that one or two make it—’ ‘Well, that’s the way it is everywhere.’
‘Of course,’ Duiker continued as if he had not heard her statement, ‘some cultures have an overriding need to increase their population base. And this can impose strictures on women. There’s a high attrition rate among the Seguleh. A duelling society by its very nature cuts down the survival rate once adulthood is reached. Young warriors in their prime – probably as deadly as a war, only this is a war that never ends. Still, there must be periods – cycles, perhaps – when young women are freed up to choose their own path.’
Picker’s eyes settled on the corpse on the table while Duiker spoke. She tried to imagine such a society, wherein like bhederin cows all the women stood moaning as their tails were pushed to one side almost as soon as the latest calf had dropped out bleating on to the ground. It was madness. It was unfair. ‘Good thing even Seguleh women wear masks,’ she muttered.
‘Sorry, what?’
She scowled across at the historian. ‘Hides all the rage.’
‘Oh, well, I don’t know that the non-warrior women do – it never occurred to me to ask. But I see your point.’
‘But is that enough?’ she asked. ‘Do so many warriors kill each other that it’s necessary to demand that of the women?’
Duiker glanced at her, then away again.
The bastard’s hiding some suspicions.
‘I don’t know, Picker. Could be. Their savagery is infamous.’
‘How long do y
ou think these ones have been down there? In the cellar, I mean, in those casks?’
‘The seals are templar. Baruk suggests that the cult persisted, in some residual form, long after its presumed extinction.’
‘Decades? Centuries?’
He shrugged.
‘But what are they doing here in Darujhistan anyway? Those islands are right off the south end of the damned continent. Nearly a thousand leagues between them and this city.’
‘I don’t know.’
Yeah, right. Sighing, she turned away. ‘Seen Antsy?’
‘At the bar.’
‘Typical. Depleting our stock.’
‘Your indecision has left him despondent.’
‘Stuff that, Duiker,’ she snapped, walking from the room, leaving him there with that damned corpse. It was a contest which of them was the least forthcoming, in any case, and she was tired of the duck and dodge. Yet, something in all of that had lodged in her the suspicion that the Guild contract out on them was connected, somehow, with this old temple and all its grisly secrets. Find the connection, and maybe find the piece of shit who put the chop on us. Find him, or her, so I can shove a cusser up inside nice and deep.
Antsy was leaning on the bar, glowering at nothing in particular, at least until he found a perfect victim in Picker as she walked up. ‘Careful, woman,’ he growled, ‘I ain’t in the mood.’
‘Ain’t in the mood for what?’
‘For anything.’
‘Except one thing.’
‘Anything you might try on me, is what I meant. As for the other thing, well, I’ve already decided to go it alone if I have to.’
‘So,’ she leaned on the bar beside him, ‘what are you waiting for, then?’
‘Blend. Once she’s back on her feet, Pick, she’ll be hungry enough to take the fight to ‘em.’ He tugged on his moustache, then scowled at her. ‘It’s you I can’t figure.’
‘Antsy,’ Picker said, sighing, ‘much as I’d love to murder every damned assassin in this city, and the Guild Master, too, they’re not the source of the problem. Someone hired them, only we don’t know who, and we don’t know why. We’ve been through this before. We’re back right where we started, in fact, only this time we’re down two.’ She found she was trembling, and was unable to meet Antsy’s stare. ‘You know, I find myself wishing Ganoes Paran was here – if anybody could work out what’s going on, it’s the Captain.’
Toll the Hounds Page 71
