Deadhouse Landing Page 4

  ‘Well … with us, of course.’ And he offered his ever-ready smile.

  Tayschrenn waved a hand. ‘The superstitions of the ignorant are no concern of mine.’

  Koarsden did not answer, but his lips pursed in censure of Tayschrenn’s dismissiveness. Finally, he cleared his throat. ‘Tay … there may come a time when even you will need to pay attention to the concerns of those around you.’

  ‘I do not see why,’ he answered, only half listening. He was, in truth, now scanning the towers for any further signs of Kartool’s infamous poisonous spiders. After a long silence he glanced to his companion and noticed his bunched brows and sour expression. He asked, prompting, ‘You said…?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Koarsden sighed.

  The way ahead was now jammed by a large party crossing the street. The crowd was festive, cheering and laughing, holding long banners aloft; children among them waved twisting black and red paper worms. Koarsden took his arm to stop him. ‘The executions are on. We should stop in.’

  Tayschrenn groaned and pulled onward. ‘D’rek spare me.’

  Koarsden would not release his arm. ‘No, no. It would be good for you to show yourself. The Demidrek’s right hand visiting the pits. Can’t have your critics painting you as soft on enforcement of the Worm’s will.’

  He relented, allowing Koarsden to drag him along. Critics? Why ever would I have critics?

  The execution pits occupied a central position in the city of Kartool. They were just that, pits, roughly circular, of greater and lesser size and capacity. Any visitor ignorant of the city’s traditions could easily fall into even the smallest, as, indeed, some unfortunates had. These were no more than mere cylindrical depressions in the stone, as deep as a man and no wider than a man’s shoulders, in which the guilty were chained upright to await D’rek’s punishment. Said punishment arrived over time as more and more flesh-eating insects fell or were drawn into the pit, to feast upon the transgressor. Or not. For in such diverse fates was the will of D’rek revealed.

  The largest execution pit was a circular depression a good four chains across. Tall stone walls surrounded it, together with steep amphitheatre seating rising behind. This was the Civic Pit, and here the two priests found gathered many of Kartool’s citizens, gossiping and passing the time by betting on how long each of the condemned – man, woman or child – would last.

  Tayschrenn and Koarsden climbed the rising cobbled walk. They were among the crowd, but not crowded, as their robes announced their calling and they were scrupulously avoided, lest offence be given.

  They left behind the mundane citizens when they took a side ramp that led to the seating permanently reserved for the priesthood. Here the curving stone benches were almost entirely empty. A few elderly priests dotted the seating, looking like bedraggled crows awaiting a sick animal’s death. A few noticed Tayschrenn and rose, bowing their respect for the red sash he wore cinched about his robes – the sash of the highest rank beneath the Demidrek.

  He and Koarsden took their seats near the front. Across the pit floor of jagged stones and gravel, dotted by bones, the day’s Overseer of Justice, an older priestess whose name he could not recall, also rose and bowed her shaved head. Tayschrenn acknowledged the bow.

  The rising rows of stone benches gradually filled, and he was surprised by the size of the crowd; he wondered if today were a feast day or lunar observance of one of the minor titular gods subservient to D’rek, such as Poliel, Beru, Burn, or Hood. Koarsden had fallen into conversation with one of the elderly priests, and inwardly Tayschrenn shook his head. Typical of the man; he seemed somehow able to get along with everyone.

  After the conversation ended, Tayschrenn murmured aside, ‘Quite the crowd.’

  Koarsden nodded. ‘Indeed. I was just commenting to Reuthen here on that very fact, and he filled me in. Seems we have a special attraction today.’

  ‘A murderer?’

  ‘No. An interloper. A priestess of that meddling enchantress.’

  Tayschrenn was quite surprised. ‘Really? The Queen of Dreams? Proselytizing here? Rather impudent. Still…’ and he put the tips of his fingers together and touched them to his chin, thinking. ‘It does set one to wondering. How does one capture the priestess of a goddess who claims to be able to predict the future?’

  Koarsden chuckled. ‘Good question. The goddess is false, of course. Only in D’rek can one see daily demonstration of truth in the world. And that truth is the cycle of death, decay, and renewal. Rebirth and Return. Such is the balanced double face of D’rek. Destruction and Creation.’

  ‘Well said!’ one of the nearby hunched old priests put in, approvingly, then hawked up a mouthful of phlegm and spat aside.

  Tayschrenn and Koarsden shared a wry smile and settled into a mutual silence. Their words were not as private as they’d hoped.

  As the most minor of the punishments began – thieves having their hands eaten away before their eyes by the especially virulent grubs the priesthood bred – Tayschrenn reflected on the hoary old litany supplied by Koarsden. Yes, D’rek alone of the Elder faiths – and D’rek was among the most ancient – emphasized that enduring truth: that out of death came life, and that each was thus necessary to the other. The ill-advised worship of Hood came closest, but in the eyes of those who embraced the teachings of D’rek it represented at best a half-measure, or mistaken turn. A wrong path, if one would. Death was not an ending, nor a destination. Rather, it was a doorway. A doorway into transformation and service to the new generations to come. The merest glance to the world around should convince anyone of that. The leaves fell, but were renewed. Out of rot and decomposition emerged new life. Such was self-evident. So did D’rek bear two faces. The male of destruction and the female of fecundity.

  A couple in chains were led into the pit. They were pelted with rubbish and rotten vegetables. These two must be divorcees. They had had the temerity to end their marriage and so naturally they must be put to death. For who knew how many future lives had been sacrificed by their selfishness? Any society or religion that valued birth and fertility must perforce denounce the separation of a mated couple as the worst of offences. Any who divorced had of course to be stoned to death. It would have been absurd to claim to value life without doing so.

  After the punishments of these common offences the priestess overseeing the day’s justice – Salleen, that was her name, Tayschrenn remembered – raised a hand for the final execution. A bound woman was led into the pit. Tayschrenn was surprised by her youth. She was bloodied and bruised, her clothes torn. Yet she held her chin high, proud without appearing disdainful.

  He approved; after all, she was a priestess.

  Salleen raised both arms for silence and the crowd quietened. She stood and crossed her arms, her hands disappearing within the folds of her black robes. ‘Messinath of Purge,’ she began, ‘you have been found guilty of manifold crimes. Of encouraging apostasy. Of heresy. Of spreading religious lies and denying the truth of D’rek’s message.’ Salleen paused here and the crowd took their cue, booing and hurling refuse. This call and response struck Tayschrenn as amusing. The routine and predictability of all this public theatre was of course necessary – people had to know what their roles in society were, what was expected of them, and how to behave.

  Salleen raised a hand once more for silence. ‘Therefore you have been condemned to death. You are allowed last words – I advise you to use them to beg for D’rek’s clemency.’

  The young priestess of the Enchantress raised her chin further, talking a deep breath. ‘Priests and priestesses of D’rek,’ she began loudly, startling Tayschrenn, ‘I am come to bring you warning. Change your ways or you shall suffer the consequences of your recklessness.’

  Across the pits, Salleen met Tayschrenn’s eye and he raised a brow in commentary. Astonishing.

  ‘Otherwise,’ the woman continued, her voice ringing throughout the amphitheatre, ‘there shall be a time of reckoning. And you shall know D’rek’s displea
sure and punishment yourselves.’

  Salleen surged to her feet, thrusting a finger. ‘Further pitiable lies!’ She shook her head in regret. ‘We generously offer you a chance to pray to D’rek, and instead you spout further profanation.’ She threw her arm down. ‘Let the punishment begin!’

  Down at the pit level, behind the inner stone wall, a line of drummers took their cue and began hammering the fat kettle drums set on the bare ground before them. The muscular musicians were naked from the waist up, and a fine black filigree of tattooed scorpions, beetles, and centipedes covered their backs and arms. The insects seem to writhe as the drumming intensified.

  Everyone waited, even the condemned priestess of the Queen of Dreams. She stood panting, glancing left and right as if searching for some executioner; this told Tayschrenn that she was indeed a stranger to the island. That she hadn’t fainted or started begging for mercy showed the strength of her inner convictions and character.

  A shame, really, that someone so strong should be so wrongheaded. But then, whom else would the cult have chosen for such a dangerous mission as proselytizing on the island of Kartool?

  A ripple of anticipation ran through the crowd as a hissing noise reached the benches. It emanated from the holes in the pit floor; the condemned had noticed it as well, as she was now backing away from the nearest of these openings.

  The hissing became a loud seething. The drummers now hammered with all their might. Up from the many holes came a boiling tide of writhing insects.

  The priestess’s mouth opened in a scream of utter horror that was inaudible beneath the coursing of millions of grating carapaces. A living flood that was now engulfing the pit.

  Again, to her credit, she did not try to run, for there was nowhere to flee. She found the tallest of the cracked rocks and stepped up upon it; a promontory of perhaps no more than shin height. There she stood, weaving slightly, a pale island surrounded by a rising sea of ten million hungry mouths.

  The carpet of vermin now covered the entire floor of the pit. Waves seemed to course through it as if it were searching, frustrated. Searching for something it knew to be present. Still it rose, deepening. Outliers of beetles and centipedes scuttled up the stone wall. Children armed with sticks ran back and forth, laughing, to flick them back into the mass beneath. Some they captured in tiny wicker baskets to keep as pets.

  Eventually, some grubs or maggots climbed the rock the condemned had retreated to and found her naked feet. The entire chitinous sea seemed to flinch. It pulled away from the edges of the pit, gathering towards the middle. The woman screamed again, soundlessly, as the rising flood washed over her feet. It covered her legs, climbing in a thick layer up beneath her skirts. She buckled in agony, mouthing something more, and toppled, to disappear beneath the foaming blanket.

  The shapeless hump writhed for a time, struggling, then fell still. After a few moments it began to move – perhaps being dragged, or rolled – towards the nearest opening. While the crowd watched, silent and awed, the seething bulge slid over the edge and disappeared as if down a throat.

  The flood of insects followed down the many pit openings like a draining ocean of foam, leaving the bare rock floor picked clean of every scrap of litter and thrown refuse. Of the condemned, there remained not one sign.

  The crowd began to rise, heading for the exits. The oldsters in the priests’ section hobbled to their feet. Some walked with the aid of twisted and polished wooden canes. A few helped others with hands under their arms. Koarsden stretched, shading his eyes to study the sun in the sky. ‘That took longer than I thought it would.’ He turned to Tayschrenn. ‘Well … what do you say we find some lunch?’

  * * *

  Dancer did not think much of this so-called capital city of Malaz. Judging from its grim and derelict character the island itself must be dirt-poor indeed. Low, ancient stone buildings squatted like tombs in the cold rain, roofed in slate, grey shakes, or ceramic tiles. Most were too far apart to allow rooftop runs, except for the very city centre.

  He and Wu stood pressed against one of these cold and damp stone walls under the cover of a roof’s ledge while rain pattered down a night-time alley. To warm himself he crossed his arms beneath his cloak and gripped the baldrics over his chest.

  ‘Damned cold rain,’ he grumbled beneath his breath to Wu.

  ‘It’s the Storm Straits,’ Wu answered, just as low. ‘A very cold sea. Subaqueous abode, they say, of the daemon Stormriders.’

  Dancer snorted at that. ‘Children’s stories.’

  ‘Not so. We of southern Dal Hon know of them.’ The mage straightened. ‘Here they come.’

  Dancer pulled a scarf up over his nose and mouth, shifted his grip to the cold damp iron of his throwing knives.

  Two figures came tramping out of the gloom of the alleyway, side by side, hands hidden beneath their oiled sealskin cloaks. Holding loaded crossbows, point down, Dancer judged. Behind came a small woman in a similar cloak, and behind her two more guards.

  Dancer stepped out to block the way, throwing blades drawn. The leading pair jerked to a halt, quite startled by his sudden appearance. Their cloaks bulged outwards as the crossbows rose.

  Dancer pointed one dagger past them to the woman, who had also halted. ‘Drop your shipment.’ Droplets of rain, he noted, fell from the tip of his extended blade.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ one guard asked, incredulous.

  Dancer ignored him. ‘Drop the package,’ he insisted. The woman’s hands remained hidden beneath her cloak. Her eyes moved from Dancer to her guards and back. Her black hair was plastered flat to her skull by the rain. Silver earrings glimmered wet and bright in the dark.

  ‘Is this, like, a dumbass hijack?’ The guard’s tone held a near-laughing note of utter disbelief.

  ‘Just take him,’ the woman hissed.

  ‘Stupid bumpkin,’ the guard sighed, and he and his partner shot from beneath their cloaks. In the same instant, Dancer dropped to the ground, rolled forward, and jammed his blades into their thighs. Both grunted their pain and went down to the wet cobbles, clutching their legs. Springing up, Dancer landed before the woman and slashed her cloak open to reveal sewn pouches hung about her shoulders. These he also slashed loose. The woman pulled a knife from the back of her belt but he grasped her wrist and twisted; the knife fell from her numb fingers. ‘Your men require attention,’ he told her.

  ‘Get him, damn you!’ she grated, glancing back over her shoulder, then froze; the guards behind her also lay prone on the cobbles. She glared murder at Dancer. ‘You are dead right now.’ He threw a piece of the slashed cloak over her head. ‘We will find you and kill you.’ He tied the cloth there like a hood and pushed her down. ‘It’s a damned small island!’

  ‘Don’t move till you count to fifty.’

  ‘Bugger you!’

  The pouches, he noted, were already gone. He jogged off up the alleyway. Behind, the woman was already up and tearing at the hood. He turned a corner, picking up his pace, and watched, impressed, as the murk of the shadows seemed to thicken all along his path. He wondered where the little fellow was; surely he wasn’t capable of keeping up with him? Watching from his Warren, he decided. Tracing him somehow.

  After taking a very long way round, checking that he was not being followed, he returned to the bar whose ridiculous name Wu had refused to change. Smiley’s. Personally, he hated it. Yet everyone on the island knew it by that name and so he had little choice but to go along with the idiocy.

  By this time it was close to dawn. He pushed open the heavy front door and shut it firmly behind him, locking it. Crossing the main common room he paused as a sound reached him.

  He scanned the gloom of the murky room until he made out someone sitting at a table, a steaming hot drink before her. Their hostess, Surly. He let his hands fall from his baldrics. ‘You’re up early.’

  ‘And you’re out late.’

  ‘My morning constitutional.’

  ‘Or evening rendezvous.’ br />
  ‘Nothing for you to trouble yourself over.’

  ‘True.’ She rose, taking her cup with her, and came to stand before him, arms crossed and cup steaming between them. He was a little surprised, and again impressed, to find that she was almost exactly his height. ‘Unless you’re bringing trouble here,’ she continued. ‘Then I’d be upset. Because, you see, we’ve worked hard to find a place here and we wouldn’t want it pulled out from under us.’

  ‘“We” being you and your Napan friends.’

  She took a sip of her tea, watching him over the brim of the cup. ‘That’s right. Do you have any idea how hard it is to be Napan here on Malaz? Of course you don’t. Our two islands have warred for control of the seas for all history. No one will even give us a berth as a damned rower. It’s a goddamned insult.’

  He thought of his own youthful attempts to establish himself from Tali to Heng, and the stinging backhanded treatment he had received from everyone – except Wu. ‘Don’t complain to me about how tough it is, okay? Because you have no idea either.’

  A corner of the woman’s thin lips twitched upwards. ‘Fine. Let’s agree to disagree. Just be warned. Don’t bring any trouble here. All right?’

  ‘Just don’t forget who works for who here, all right?’

  She blew a plume of steam from her tea. ‘Oh, I won’t. How could I?’

  ‘Fine.’ He headed for the stairs, but, struck by an afterthought, he turned. ‘Oh – and get that Urko fellow out of the kitchen, okay? He cooks about as well as a Wickan horseman.’

  ‘Fine. Who should replace him?’

  He started up the stairs. ‘Who cares? Why don’t you hire a real cook?’ He added, grumbling, ‘Maybe we’d actually get some real Hood-damned customers in here.’

  Closing the door to the office he turned and stopped short, finding the room completely dark. ‘Oh, please,’ he complained, and light blossomed as the thick shadows retreated to reveal the desk lamp flame flickering and Wu seated behind it.

  ‘Who were you talking to?’ the mage demanded, hunched, his tiny ferret-like eyes darting.