The Wraeththu Chronicles

by Storm Constantine

  Kruin was my second customer, and one destined to become a regular. The first time he set foot in my room, I could tell that half of him hates coming to this place. He was uneasy, giving off whiffs of profound guilt and self-loathing. I wondered what he wanted of me. I think I warmed to him because he looks Varrish; the same ropy, muscled look, tawny hair, restlessness. "I am Natawni," he told me. The name was familiar; a Jaddayoth tribe.

  "You'll wear a hole in my carpet," I said. He ceased striding up and down.

  "I have to explain before we ... well, in my tribe, some aspects of aruna are forbidden to us."

  "The delights of pelcia and chaitra? Don't worry. They are forbidden to just about every tribe."

  He shook his head in irritation. "No."

  "Then please explain."

  "It is because of our god," he said hesitantly. "The Skylording. Like us, he is the two in one; bisexual. His priests, the Skyles speak with Him often and He has decreed that for the warriors of the tribe, there should be a special code. Our affinity with each principle, either male or female, must change with the seasons. Thus, in spring and summer, we are female, and on the cusp of the changing season, the procreation of harlings takes place as our sexuality shifts toward the male. For the autumn and winter, we are masculine. It is the curse of the warrior caste! We must not deviate from our decreed affinity lest we harm the blood of our children. The other hara of the tribe respect this code; they would never transgress it. Why should they? It is not their problem. It is early winter here. I am in the masculine phase. I desire warmth. I desire . . . submission ..."

  "You desire to be soume," I finished for him.

  He smiled timidly. "Of course, you find nothing unusual in that. Don't mock me, Calanthe! The code of my tribe runs very deep within me. By this transgression, I taint my love of the Skylording. I risk the lives of future harlings."

  I doubt it, I thought, but kept it quiet. "You must be very weakwilled, Kruin," I said. "I've seen you here often."

  He bristled visibly. "I'm a long way from home. I have no friends in Fallsend. I do not have to justify myself to you!"

  "No, of course not." I shoved a drink in his hand. "Here. How come you're in Fallsend anyway?" I sat him on my bed and began to unlace his jacket. The workmanship was exceedingly fine, the leather soft as living skin.

  "Trade," he said. "I come from Orligia, a town in southern Natawni. Once a year, we bring leatherwork to the market in Fallsend. That way, we pick up trade that might otherwise be missed if we operated only in Jaddayoth. The Emunah export to Fallsend, but of course, we would lose a lot of profit using them as brokers."

  "How many of you are there?"

  "Four. The others don't know I come here. They think I visit a har in some corner of the town, but they don't suspect it might be a kanene. If they did, they'd draw their own conclusions, of course."

  It was clear why Jafit had sent Kruin to me, for he wasn't seeking the ultimate in pain and repletion, but merely aruna in its simplest and most pleasing form. I took delight in his lean, hard body, which is how I prefer them. Lolotea and Astarth were sleek, it is true, but they had a certain softness about them, which came from their easy existence. Kruin had warm skin. His limbs were supple and our melding was harmonious. His tribe are also called the People of the Bones. He wore thorns of bone in his ears. I learned he was anxious to return home before the snows became too deep. "Jaddayoth can be a harsh place in winter," he said. Before he left me that night, he gave me one of his earrings, placing it in my ear himself. Half-way through the night, it woke me up because it had happily burrowed itself into the side of my neck. That was the first time blood stained my bedsheets; hopefully the last!

  We leave debts in every town. We are notorious. Our lives have become a sort of daring, a desire to tempt Fate. Perhaps we feel immortal. The Unneah are Jar behind us now; we had little in common with them. Hara are looking for us, some to settle scores, some to ask for our services. We have a lot of money because of that. Zack grows more beautiful every day. He blooms like a strong, dark-petalled flower on a grave; what sustains him, sleekens him, is probably corrupt. I am half afraid of him. He is too wild, too reckless, too ephemeral. Flowers only bloom for a short time, don't they? It is night-time and this city is damp. Yellow lights flicker; but don't dispel the shadows. There are noises in every alley. We are armed with knives and guns; we are sleek. There is a red light above the door to a bar, lending an alien cast to those that stand beneath it. They part to let us pass within. The place is packed with Hara, the air dense with smoke. Much noise; music. Zack sits down at a table and begins to clean his nails with the point of a knife. I go to the bar. Someone speaks to me there. They tell me something important. I give Zack a beer and tell him we have enemies in this place. He shrugs and smiles. We drink. We talk of where we shall go next. Zack's teeth are very white and feral in the livid light. Someone comes to our table. Zack doesn 't stop smiling, although we alert each other with our eyes. There is a conversation and, during this conversation, I pull out a gun. There is a shot, the ripping of flesh and bone, a red spray. Those seated behind us make noises of disgust and annoyance, as the body falls across their table; glasses, liquor flying all over the place. Everyone is looking at us, some smiling, some shocked and, inevitably, some angry. People have died before in this bar. What I've done is not that unusual but Zack still thinks we should leave. I agree. There are too many of the dead Har's friends here. We walk to the door and, once outside, begin to run. We run through the wet, dark streets. Zack is laughing out loud. We become aware of footsteps behind us, running, echoing. The city seems empty. A car prowls by emptily; black, silent and shining. We do not know this place, but we are not afraid. We run. And. . . . They corner us at the end of a dismal, filthy alley. There are trashcans, boxes everywhere; a dead dog with an open mouth. Zack turns

  panting. A distant light reflects off the blade of his raised knife. The wall before us is high, but it is our only way out. Zack puts the knife between his teeth. "On my shoulders!" he mumbles, past the blade. "Hurry!" I tuck my gun into my belt and scramble up his body. His muscles are trembling. "Hurry, for fuck's sake, Cal! They're nearly here!"

  "OK!" My hands curl over the top of the wall. It is wet and slimy. I don't feel strong enough to pull myself up, as if all my strength is draining out of my feet. Should we stay and fight? We will die, almost certainly, but can we escape? Is there enough time, is there?

  "Cal, for God's sake!" Zack is angry. He pushes me up and I lie on my belly on the wall. There is a clatter. My gun drops down on the other side.

  "Oh, fuck it!"

  "Cal!" Zack's voice is low. I look up the alley we have just come down. A gang of hara is approaching. They are now only feet away from us. They havestopped running. Their breath is steaming. They are so silent. Then one of them begins to move.

  Zack turns his face up to me. "Pull me up!" he says and reaches toward me. There is no time. I have no weapon. There is not enough time. "Cal!" One by one, behind him, the predators begin to move. Some of them are smiling. They look so furtive. "Pull me up! For fuck's sake, Cal, pull me up! What's wrong with you?!" There is disbelief in Zack's voice, a certain crack, a certain realization that I cannot, will not help him. "Cal!"

  I stand on the wall. It is just seconds, but seconds that pass like hours. Everything is so slow. I am turning. Below me, on the other side of the wall, is safety and another alley. Just seconds. I am turning, so slowly, steam-light, neon, damp, viscous walls. A distant shout. I am turning. Noises below me are the howls of the pack. "Cal!"

  At last, desperation. He is afraid. I love you, Zack. I pull myself up, to jump.

  "You fucking bastard! Cal!"

  He can't believe I'm turning away. But then, he does believe. I feel something hit my arm. A brick. A dead dog. A curse. Who knows? I have heard many curses. I land on the other side of the wall, closing my ears to the sounds; the sickening, dull sounds of flesh under attack. I land on feet and hands and my arm
buckles. I look. I am wet and warm. It is blood; Zack's knife in my arm, to the hilt. With a sad, desperate cry, I wrench it from the flesh. I can feel nothing. I stumble, I start to run. I keep on running. We thought we were immortal. Now we are both dead. . .

  Jafit sent for me the next day. "Kruin speaks well of you," he said, sitting behind his desk, looking authoritative.

  "Perhaps I've found my vocation then."

  Jafit smiled thinly. "Sit down, Calanthe," he said. I did so. He leaned forward over his desk. "Now, Astarth tells me you've been asking one or two awkward questions, nosing around in places where you shouldn't be."

  "Well, I... er ..." I raised my hands in vexation, pulled an apologetic face.

  "Hmph. Quite the curious cat, aren't you!"

  The fateful proverb paraded before my mind's eye. "Mysteries intrigue me, perhaps. But if you want to rap my knuckles, Jafit, please go ahead."

  "Does that mean you won't try to find out what's up there now?"

  "I didn't say that! What's the matter? Don't you trust me?"

  He laughed. "Trust you? That's a good one! We're both hara of maturity, Calanthe. Is there a place for trust in this day and age?"

  "If there is, it is certainly south of Thaine," I said.

  "Quite so!" Jafit agreed. "No, I don't trust you, Calanthe, but I'll let you in on the secret. You've been here long enough. Anyway, it's not that terrible a thing."

  "I'm all ears."

  "Drink?" '

  "If you like."

  He went to his cupboard. "There is a har up there, you're right," he said, filling two glasses with betica. "Want to know why I keep him locked up? OK here." I took the glass. "Three years ago, I traveled to Meris, a town in Emunah. It is not a journey I make often, but some merchandise is only available to us inside Jaddayoth. Astarth had given me a list this long," he made an appropriate gesture, "of things to buy. Now, as you know, slavery is outlawed everywhere that the Gelaming's claws can burrow into, but if there is going to be such a thing, Emunah is the place to find it. I got wind of a black market slave auction. My contact was going along and he asked me if I wanted to take a look. I was curious. I went with him. Now, normally, I'd never even consider accruing kanene in that way. Slaves are more trouble than they're worth. They rarely provide a good service, but. . ."

  "Ah, something out of the ordinary?"

  Jafit smiled and sat down again. "You could say that. This one particular Har... I'd never seen anything like him. Obvious that he had Kalamah blood, but there was something more. Beauty didn't come into it."

  "How romantic!" I said. "Of course, you bought him."

  Jafit nodded, smiling. "Cleaned me out, naturally! Astarth was most put out! I came back to Piristil with nothing but a slave."

  "So what went wrong? Why the bars?"

  "Hmm, well, it was a nightmare from the start! I wasn't surprised that he was uncooperative—that was only to be expected—but his ferocity and sheer madness, that was not something any of us were prepared for. The first client I sent him barely escaped with his life. He lost an eye!" Jafit shook his head miserably at the recollection. "Could have been nasty, more than that, money completely wasted. Then Astarth came up with an answer. We would use the slave's violent nature as an attraction. Some Hara pay me dearly for that kind of sport. And here was a kanene who did not have to act! His name is Panthera, by the way. I sell him for the fight."

  "And he still has to be locked in?"

  "God, I should say so! He escaped three times in the beginning. Three times I had to pay trackers to bring him back. In every instance, they barely succeeded. Panthera is half-Kalamah and half-Ferike. Because of that, he possesses brains, stealth and cunning to an exceptional degree. The har you discovered in the corridor up there is a Mojag. I have three of them on my payroll. Mojags are the most fearless, warlike tribe of Jaddayoth. Only they can keep Panthera in Piristil."

  "So, an insane beauty kept in chains," I said. "It really is romantic."

  "There is little romance about Panthera," Jafit replied drily. "He is sullen, uncommunicative and vicious ... but lovely. Some hara pay me just for the privilege of looking at him."

  "Well thanks for telling me, Jafit," I said "It was a great story."

  "Don't thank me yet," he replied. "There was a reason. The staff won't go near Panthera. Astarth and the other kanene see to his needs. They don't like it but that's just tough. Consider yourself in, Calanthe. If any one can handle that wildcat, I think it's you."

  "From whore to housemaiden in a single step! Is this a promotion?" Jafit smiled without humor. "You'd better meet him," he said. "I'll take you now."

  Nobody had ever created a pedestal for Panthera, but from the moment I first saw him, I created one there and then out of pure thought-form, and put him right on it. Wreaththu have spawned many legends. I remember the ones I've known; the Varrish Cobweb, the Kakkahaar viper Ulaume and, of course, Pellaz, Tigron of the Gelaming. Men had their goddesses, women named as the most beautiful and potent creatures that god could create. Wraeththu surpass all that. In them, beauty is complete because it is both male and female; the way it should be. Jafit knocked on Panthera's door and one of the Mojags opened it to us. I could see the other two sitting at a table engrossed in some kind of boardgame.

  "Well, there you are," Jafit said. "Feast your eyes on that." Panthera sat apart from the others, straight backed, on a stool, looking down into the yard through the bars of the window. The room was very light, tastefully decorated, pale hangings on the walls, soft, pale carpet underfoot. Panthera turned and examined us carefully for a moment, as a cat may examine a movement in the corner of a room. His green eyes were as cold as stone, his wild, thick hair tied up, his shoulders bare and bruised. I noted that his hands clutched each other in his lap. He was chained to the wall. He was, as had been implied, incredibly lovely.

  "Well, there you have it," Jafit said, "A Wraeththu legend." Panthera turned away quickly. "How's he been today?" Jafit asked the Mojags, Huge things, they were, magnificent and deadly.

  "Quiet, I'd say. Quiet," One of them said and the other two laughed. "What's all that?" Jafit inquired, pointing to Panthera's bruised shoulders. The Mojags shrugged. They did not think it was any of their business. "Here, let me see that." Jafit went and put one tentative hand on Panthera's arm. Panthera did not resist. He ignored Jafit. Jafit pulled the material of Panthera's robe down to reveal his back. He made an angry noise. "Look at this!" he said. "This is too much! What do they think they pay me for?" I sauntered forward to have a look. It seemed like Panthera had been mauled by a pack of wolves. Some days ago, too, by the look of the damage. The bruises were yellowing, the scratches dark and crusty. "Well that's somebody who won't be coming here again!" Jafit decided. "What do you expect us to do about it?" one of the Mojags asked gruffly, sensing criticism of their work. Jafit shook his head. He brushed the comment away with a brusque wave of his hand. Panthera looked as if he was on another planet for all the notice he took of what was going on. "I'll let you rest for a while," Jafit told him. Panthera still did not respond. I looked on in amazement. "Panthera, this is Calanthe," Jafit said as if speaking to an imbecile. "He's going to help look after you." Panthera actually looked at me. His disdain was withering. He sighed through his nose and turned away again. "Come on, Calanthe," Jafit said. "You can start your duties in a day or two." Outside the room, I said, "Jafit, that isn't slavery. That's a life sentence in hell."

  "Oh come on, everywhere in the world is somebody's sentence, somebody's hell," Jafit replied equably.

  "Don't be squeamish Cal, it could be you sitting there. Count your blessings."

  "Maybe" I said. "And the name's Calanthe, nothing else."

  Jafit smiled. We walked away.

  It could be me sitting there.... A sobering thought. I really should not care about anybody else but myself. Why put myself in danger? What would it be like to be chained to a wall? That night a har came to my room seeking chaitra. I gave it to him alright. His
was the miserable face of someone given all the gifts of God, who was throwing them back without gratitude. His was the face of perfection turned to corruption. His was the face of Fallsend. I knew it couldn't be the har who'd rearranged the flesh of Panthera's back, but it helped to pretend it was. He left me a chastened creature. I lay on the bed and smiled. There were no gifts for me that night.

  Red sand. Red pony. I ride away from those that succoured me. lam healed— in body. The desert has power; Mankind has barely touched it. It is soothing. After a few days, I ride into a one-horse peasant town. I have a feeling something will happen here. It does. I see him, framed in a doorway. Peasant boy, all hair and eyes, but such eyes! They know so little here. They do not know what I am. I watch him constantly. Here is beauty, I think. Yes, here it is. A healing loveliness, but human. "lam Pellaz, "he tells me and he smiles; a nervous, bright smile of the uncorrupted. I am death, little child. I will lie to you. I cannot let you know me because I want you. I ride through the mist on a steamy afternoon, through red mud on a red pony, stolen money in my pocket, a stolen smile on my face. I ride toward him and he tells me his name. The first, fateful magic. Now I will have you, little one. It is so easy. I steal him away, like the money, like the pony, into the wilderness, that is not just a waste of stone and sand, but a wilderness of the spirit because he is leaving the world he knows. He looks back and I think, he will go back. He has realized, and he will go back. But he merely sighs and follows me. There is something powerful and untrained inside him. He must become har—and quickly. Seel has a stronghold in the desert mountains. I shall take him there. He shall be made Wraeththu. Then he will be mine. Healing balm, healing feelings; his innocence shall cleanse me and make me whole. I'll wake up and the world shall be new and my smile shall come from the inside, black memories forgotten. Please don't let him see me kill.