Deadhouse Landing Page 3

  * * *

  She found him at the east wall battlements, overlooking the coast and the city harbourage just to the south. An older man, she well knew: grey at his temples, but still hale. Pirate admiral – marque – who had herded this unruly island of privateer captains for years. Fought two wars at sea against Nap and the kings of Itko Kan, and now wore a corset beneath his shirts and vest to maintain his lean figure. Mock, commander of the three men-o-war that ruled the southern seas: the Intolerant, the Intemperate, and the Insufferable.

  Mock indeed.

  He turned as she approached, smiling, and rather self-consciously brushing back his moustache. ‘Tattersail, my Thyr witch. How are you today?’

  She pressed up against him. ‘Well. What brings you up here? Planning?’

  He ran a hand down her waist to her rear and squeezed her there. ‘Indeed. There is word of a convoy heading out of Cawn for Unta. We cannot let that pass us by without challenging it.’ He kissed her brow. ‘The captains would be very reassured if you would accompany them. Their fearsome battle-mage, Tattersail.’

  ‘I’m sure the captains would be far more reassured if you accompanied them.’

  He drew away, leaning both elbows on the stained limestone of a crenel. ‘I wish I could. But you know the moment I leave the captains will raise their eyes to the empty Hold and wonder: Why shouldn’t I sit there?’ He chuckled then, letting out a long breath. ‘Funny. Just like me. I wanted nothing more than to make this place my own. But now it’s as though I’m a prisoner. Not daring to leave…’

  This direction of talk made Sail strangely uncomfortable. She took his arm. ‘You’ve gone on forays before.’

  ‘Yes. When I was younger. But now, with every passing year, these new captains become ever bolder. Well…’ He kissed her brow. ‘Will you travel on board the Insufferable in my stead?’

  ‘Of course I will.’

  He squeezed her shoulders. ‘Thank you, Sail. I rely upon you a great deal.’

  And I will not let you down. You will see. ‘When do we go?’

  ‘In a few days. Lie in wait off the Vorian coast, yes?’

  Sail nodded. Yes, that rugged mountainous coastline was a favourite hunting ground. ‘And what of the Napans? Surely they will make a play for any convoy.’

  Mock held out an arm, inviting her to take it, and started for the corner tower. ‘Nap remains in disorder. It just may be Malaz’s turn to rule the coasts. Then we will have them, Sail. All recognize Nap as an island nation – why not Malaz? Imagine that, yes? Mock, King of Malaz?’

  Sail squeezed his arm tight. Yes. And Tattersail, Queen of Malaz.

  Imagine that.

  * * *

  The deputation arrived outside his open threshold at dawn. All five knelt to one knee in the dust of the Street of Temples, awaiting his attention.

  He let them sweat through the morning while he sat cross-legged before the sarcophagus that was his chosen altar, and prayed to his god. A god few prayed to, and then only in extreme need or exigency. A god ignored by most yet escaped by none in the end. Hood. The Grey God. The Dark Taker. The god of death itself.

  In time he raised his head, straightening his back and setting his palms on his knees. Nara, who had been waiting just to one side, offered a wood platter bearing a light meal of yogurt, bread, and thin beer.

  Bowing his thanks, he backed away from the altar and ate, sword across his lap, sitting on the stone threshold of what was once – and remained for all practical purposes – a mausoleum.

  Through all this the five still did not raise their cowled heads.

  Brushing his hands clean, he stepped out on to the street, and adjusted his sword at his hip. ‘Yes?’

  The foremost of the five inclined his hooded head even further, then straightened, head still bowed. Only the tip of an iron-grey beard showed beneath his hood. ‘Lord Dassem. We come seeking a boon.’

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘We are chosen deputies of these lands’ largest congregations of our lord the Grey Walker.’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘Lord Dassem – a scourge has appeared in many of our cities. A sickness that spares none. Young, old. Poliel’s visitations are known to us, of course, but this one’s touch is death. Some name it Hood’s Wrath. And so we come begging that you intercede with our lord. How have we transgressed? What have we done to earn his disfavour?’

  ‘Why?’

  The spokesman paused, glancing back to his fellows in obvious confusion. ‘Well … so that we may avert this scourge. Turn his displeasure aside from us. The populace is becoming fearful and angered in many cities. There have been reprisals. Killings of devotees.’

  Dassem shook his head. ‘It is I who am angered that you should come to me. Angered and disappointed. You above all should know there is no turning aside Hood’s hand. There can be no propitiation. No bribe or sacrifice can be made that will save anyone. There is no cheating death. It comes at its appointed time – sooner or later.’

  The spokesman fluttered his hands in apology. ‘Do not misunderstand. We seek no special favour for ourselves – we seek only for the safety of our flocks. Do you wish his worship to become repugnant in the eyes of so many? Blamed and denigrated? Outlawed, even?’

  The rear delegate spoke up in a young man’s voice. ‘Everyone knows you came to Heng to challenge the Protectress’s ban on his worship! And you broke the ban! You brought his message to Heng. Why abandon it elsewhere?’

  Dassem continued to shake his head. ‘I merely walked where my lord set my feet.’

  ‘You refuse us, then?’ the young delegate answered in rising anger.

  The foremost lifted a hand for silence. ‘Control yourself, brother Jaim.’ He addressed Dassem. ‘Lord, are you saying you will not address our master on our behalf?’

  Dassem let out a long slow breath. ‘I am saying it is pointless. What happens, must happen. There is no good or bad. Only what is necessary. Death. Ending. Destruction. Call it what you will. It is necessary in existence. Hood stands in that role because none other would. His is the face upon an inescapable truth of life. Some choose to hate him for it. They are foolish to do so.’

  The spokesman bowed his cowled head once more. ‘Your interpretation of the faith is a most harsh one, Lord Dassem. Harsh and rigid and unforgiving. I wish you luck with it, but fear you may come to regret such an inhuman stance.’ He turned to his companions. ‘Come. We must return to our brothers and sisters and endure as best we might.’

  Four of the deputation moved to leave, but the fifth, the last, remained facing Dassem, who noted his fists within his loose sleeves clenched and white.

  ‘Brother Jaim!’ the spokesman called, a note of warning in his voice.

  In one swirling motion Brother Jaim threw off his robes, revealing a lean young man in leather armour, twinned longswords at his sides. He glared at Dassem. ‘I say you refuse because you are false! You are not the true Sword. You are an impostor. I say you must prove yourself – now!’

  Dassem turned a glance upon the other four. The greybeard, his hands crossed and hidden in his robes, bowed his acquiescence. ‘So be it.’

  Dassem tilted his head to Jaim. ‘I accept, of course.’

  Jaim drew his blades and passing Hengans backed away, some shouting their alarm. The main way emptied. Dassem slowly crossed to its dusty mid-point. ‘We need not do this,’ he called to Jaim.

  ‘On the contrary – you must. You must prove yourself.’

  He shook his head once again. ‘Prove myself to you, you mean.’

  ‘Anyone can claim a title,’ Jaim answered, now beginning to circle.

  Dassem drew his hand-and-a-half and struck a ready stance edge-on to the man. He shifted as the fellow circled, waiting, as Jaim was the challenger.

  It came quickly in a flurry of blows which Dassem slipped and blocked. The swordsman was good, Dassem could admit. As he would have to be. Yet not inspired; or he was holding back for the moment. Dassem now
shifted, circling as well.

  All had become eerily silent on the Street of the Temples, normally a hub of murmured prayers, hawkers, and chants of devotion. The four deputies watched motionless. The way was choked off far up its length at both ends as Hengans gathered. Nara watched, frozen in the mausoleum’s open entrance, a hand clutching her throat.

  Dassem waited, husbanding his strength. Patience was one of his advantages. Many he’d fought became panicked the longer a duel dragged on. Or exhausted themselves in anxiety and constant tension. He remained relaxed, his shoulders and arms loose and fluid, and this alone often unnerved an opponent.

  After his initial testing, Jaim also eased back into a similar waiting stance. Dassem offered him the slightest tilt of the head in acknowledgement. For as Jaim had been testing, he had been as well.

  Now the strategy of the duel began. Weapon-masters are of course correct when they insist that most fights end in the first few passes; this is common truth. Those that do not, however, become less battles of exchanges and more battles of will and insight. Those who excel in either typically emerge the victor. And Dassem excelled at both.

  He watched, studying his opponent, as Jaim through narrowed eyes likewise studied him.

  Weapon-masters are also correct in warning against watching one’s opponent’s feet, their weapons, or their eyes; all can and will be used in diversion, deceit, feint, and stratagem. This is truth as well. One must cultivate the whole, take in thousands of tiny hints, the slightest of movements, a brush or suggestion, building an image of the opponent until one can understand their thinking. Their strengths and their weaknesses. Until you know them intimately; only then can you defeat them.

  Here Dassem excelled as well. Indeed, so sensitive was his awareness that, watching any blade, he could filter out the extraneous irrelevant shifts and movements until he could discern the very tiniest of vibrations transmitted from the palm of the bearer through the grip and up to the utter tip, and know the pulse rate of his opponent’s very heart.

  In a seemingly casual move, Jaim tried to disguise the forward shift of his centre of gravity. At the same instant his pulse rate jumped, and Dassem knew he was about to come at him not in a test or feint, but in a serious effort. He readied himself to counter-attack.

  The man came on in a beautifully coordinated series of passes of both blades, and Dassem was saddened that he would have to end this confrontation in so final a manner. Both knew there could be no first-blood here, no quarter or yielding; this was, of course, a duel to the death.

  He yielded, circling and waiting, and finally his opening came. It appeared in the overextension of Jaim’s right foot. Dassem lashed out with his forward leg, striking the knee outwards, and Jaim, unbalanced, tumbled to that side as Dassem knew he would, his own blade already thrusting to take him through the heart as he fell.

  Jaim struck the dirty cobbles of the road with Dassem already withdrawing his blade. He lay staring, a puzzled expression on his face, blinking at the sky as his fate registered in his mind. Then the puzzlement cleared and he nodded to Dassem, mouthing silently, My apologies …

  Dassem saluted him, grip raised to his chin.

  Three of the deputies converged on the body, collecting the swords, a waist-pouch, and other possessions. The fourth, the greybeard, bowed to Dassem. ‘He was the best of us. None other could touch him.’ He shook his cowled head in wonderment. ‘Our apologies, Sword. But we had to be certain.’

  ‘I offer no blame.’

  ‘We shall return to our congregations and struggle to survive this plague as best we may. You, too, should prepare, Lord Dassem. I suspect Heng will not be spared.’ And he bowed for the last time, gesturing his brothers away.

  Dassem watched them go, then turned to Nara; she stood with her hand still clenched at her throat. ‘Every time, I worry,’ she breathed. ‘Even though I know I should have faith – I cannot help it.’

  He returned to sit cross-legged before the sarcophagus once more. ‘I understand.’ He looked up at her. ‘Will you accept my training now?’

  She shook her head. ‘I do not want to hurt anyone.’

  ‘But you may have to defend yourself.’

  She winced and let her hand fall. ‘Well, there is that…’

  He nodded. ‘Good. We’ll use the open yards between the mausoleums.’

  A voice called from the street, making Nara jump, ‘Acolyte, or priest! Or champion. Or whatever it is you choose to call yourself! There’s a body out here.’

  Dassem sighed and rose. He urged Nara further back into the mausoleum and moved to its open threshold, squinting against the light.

  A single man stood in the centre of the street. At first impression he resembled a dock labourer or farm worker, in ragged tunic and trousers, his hair a greying unkempt mop upon his scarred, uneven scalp. But in Dassem’s vision he fairly glowed with power and potential.

  One of the city mages who ruled Li Heng, named Ho.

  Dassem stepped out on to the street. At least two others of the five city mages were probably present as well, hidden, watching from among the crowd.

  ‘Do you wish my professional opinion on the matter?’

  The man gave a toothy smile. ‘Looks to me like your work.’

  ‘How can you tell?’

  The mage’s meaty hands twitched at his sides and Dassem sensed the sizzling energies of an open Warren. ‘Call it intuition,’ he said.

  Dassem slowly crossed his arms. ‘I understand you’ll need a witness.’

  ‘We’ll find one.’

  ‘Let me know when you do.’

  ‘We will. It’ll be exile for you, soon enough.’

  ‘Come back then.’

  ‘We will.’ And he nodded aside, presumably to one of his compatriots. A Dal Honese woman stepped out from among the crowd of onlookers, heavy and broad-hipped, with a wild mane of hair – Mara. She walked right in front of him, a hungry grin on her lips.

  ‘See you later,’ she said as she passed, winking.

  Dassem watched them go, then returned to the mausoleum. He eyed Nara for a time, thinking. ‘We should begin at once.’

  ‘You don’t, ah, fear them, do you?’

  ‘No. But I did not come here for a war. They are the law here. People they want gone tend to disappear.’ He thought of the mad Dal Hon mage and his friend who had unleashed such a riot last season. They disappeared. Surprising, that. The slim one – the way he moved, so deceptively quick and graceful – he would’ve been a dangerous opponent. He was surprised these city mages got the better of that one.

  And they’d wanted him gone all this time as well. All they lacked was an excuse. No doubt they thought they had it now.

  He knelt once more before the sarcophagus, bowing so low his brow pressed into the cold gritty stone floor. Father Hood. Grant me strength. What shall come, shall come. Your hand falls on all without prejudice. Good, bad. Worthy, unworthy. Death is not a judgement – it is a necessity. Even these men and women, your priests, even they could not understand, or accept, your impartiality.

  He pressed his brow hard into the dusty grit. So, is it I who am wrong?

  * * *

  Tayschrenn walked the Street of the Icon-Carvers in the Septarch district of Kartool city. Passing through the crowds, he hardly noticed the citizens and cult penitents who dutifully bowed to him. His thoughts, as usual, were completely occupied by the continuing subtleties and twists in his chosen field of priestly study – namely the immanency of D’rek, the Worm of Autumn.

  So it was that his fellow priest, Koarsden, had to take his arm and pull him back, warning, ‘Look out there, Tay.’

  Blinking, he now noticed among the rubbish littering the cobbles an emaciated, near-skeletal figure wrapped in dirty rags. A body so neglected-looking that one would have been certain it was a corpse. Sensing attention, the unfortunate turned cloudy, disease-blinded eyes his way and raised a quivering hand.

  Knowing his duty, Tayschrenn mechanically took th
e hand, as fever-hot as a burning ember, all bones and snake-dry parchment skin, and muttered a quick, ‘May D’rek embrace you.’ He then stepped over the devotee and continued on his way.

  ‘Sometimes I wonder on the motives of these petitioners,’ Koarsden mused as they walked the rising street.

  ‘He is winning great merit for his descendants.’

  ‘True. But some, I suspect, come hoping to be cured.’

  Tayschrenn knew of the debates surrounding this uncomfortable heresy within the cult. That there were those who were passed over by D’rek. In the end, among the highest rank of the priesthood, the Convene of All Temples, it was decided that the motives and mind of a god lie beyond mere mortal understanding. Such survivors were thus not officially condemned as heretics or apostates, but explained as cases of merit accrued by some ancestor, or as intervention by close relations already in the embrace of the Great Worm – most usually a dead child or parent of the afflicted.

  Belatedly, he realized he was once more indulging in the vice Koarsden and others most often accused him of – over-analysing. He cleared his throat. ‘Why bother to drag oneself here, then? D’rek’s influence coils the world. One can just as easily reach the Worm from anywhere, can’t one?’

  Koarsden lifted one of his shaved brows, watching him sidelong. ‘Careful, Tay. You may be the Demidrek’s favourite, but your habit of posing uncomfortable questions has not gone unnoticed.’

  Tayschrenn merely shrugged beneath his black robes. ‘Facts cannot be wished away.’

  After a time, Koarsden answered drily, ‘Unfortunately, they can.’ They continued in silence, then his friend shot an arm upwards. ‘Saw one.’

  Tayschrenn raised his gaze, blinking at the tall spires jutting above. ‘Just a reflection of the sunlight on the mirror mosaic there.’

  ‘No, no. It moved. They’re up there, I tell you. Getting bolder too.’

  ‘The habits of the island’s spiders are no matter to us.’

  Koarsden tilted his long, hound-like head. ‘Well, some commoners say it is a sign of D’rek’s displeasure.’

  ‘Displeasure? Displeasure with whom?’