Deadhouse Landing

Chapter 2

‘Awake, awake, Mistress Jay!’ Light blossomed and Sail winced, pulling the covers over her eyes. ‘’Tis late! What are you thinking, lolling about in bed?’

‘All the rich ladies in Unta do it, Viv. It’s good for the complexion. And it’s not Jay. It’s Sail.’

A poker rattled in the stone fireplace. ‘Well, I’d think it’s not good for the complexion. Makes the eyes puffy and all.’

‘You know nothing, Viv.’

There came a huff and a sniff. ‘Well … if Mistress Sail says so…’

Sail took the time to stretch. She arched her back, luxuriating in the soft smooth glide of clean cotton sheets – so unlike the coarse flea-infested rags of her youth. Her hand emerged from the layered covers to encounter the chill morning air of Malaz Island and she flinched, drawing her knees to her chest.

Gods, it was freezing! It was summer and it was freezing! How she hated this damned island. And trust Viv to start the fire late.

She dared poke her head from beneath the heaped quilts, and blinked at the light of mid-morning. ‘Is the chamberpot ready?’

Viv, her supposed lady-in-waiting, though having seen a bare twelve summers, turned from where she knelt at the fireplace. She wrinkled her tiny freckled nose. ‘Why do you have to use that smelly thing? Just use the privy like everyone else.’

Through clenched teeth Sail said, ‘Because that’s not what real ladies do.’

Viv rolled her eyes, then returned to rebuilding the fire. ‘More work for us,’ she grumbled.

‘Don’t forget who I am.’

‘Oh, I ain’t forgetting. You’re in bed, not me.’

Sail gathered the duvet about herself and dragged it across the icy bare stone floor of the bedroom to the divider behind which lay the ceramic chamberpot. She crouched over it and eased her bladder in an embarrassingly loud hiss.

She wondered what the real ladies in Unta did about that. She shuffled from behind the divider. ‘Now dress me.’

Viv sighed and straightened from the stone hearth, brushed errant strands of black hair from her snowy-pale forehead.

Well, Sail reflected, as least they’d progressed past comments like ‘Can’t you dress yourself?’

‘The riding skirts,’ she said.

Viv searched through the clothes chest. She grumbled, just loud enough, ‘Ain’t no horses on Malaz.’

Sail almost despaired. Couldn’t this foolish child see what a benefit this was for her? She was learning an art she could market on the mainland. ‘They’re all the fashion, Viv.’

‘Where?’

‘What do you mean, where?’ She waved impatiently. ‘In the cities. Tali and Gris and Unta!’

‘Do much riding in these cities, do they?’

Sail clenched her lips tight, hissed, ‘Just bring them.’

Viv held out the layered thick skirts and Sail dared stretch an arm out of the duvet to take them. ‘And the velvet long-sleeved blouse, and that woven Wickan vest.’

Viv blew hair from her face and returned to the chest. ‘It’s summer,’ she said. ‘Why not a sleeveless dress?’

Sail shuddered in her wrap. ‘Summer here? What a joke. Bring the heeled shoes too. The black ones.’

‘Yes, mistress.’

Sail drew on the skirts. ‘Where’s Mock?’

‘Don’t know.’

As always, the dislike in the girl’s voice was obvious, and, as always, Sail chose to ignore it. She found the waist of the skirts too tight and realized she’d have to get Viv to let them out once again; she’d always been curvy, but perhaps there was a limit. ‘Don’t know?’ She waved her off. ‘Well, find out. And don’t forget to air the bedding and send someone to empty the pot.’

Viv dropped the remaining clothes on the bed and flounced from the bedchamber. ‘Yes, mistress.’

That’s right, child. Mistress. I am mistress of this castle – and don’t you forget it. She dressed hurriedly, tried to fluff up her tangled hair. The Deck of Dragons beckoned from the writing desk. It fairly burst with swirling potential this morning, but she’d already decided to find Mock. She turned away to the door.

Her search brought her down to the main floor of the keep. This consisted almost entirely of one large reception and banquet hall. Here Mock held court during long evening meals where he entertained his pirate – or, as they called themselves, privateer – captains. Privateers because they carried letters of marque and reprisal, penned by Mock himself, that allowed predation on all seagoing commerce during times of war. And war, of course, was constant.

Sail also knew that no state recognized the man’s right to issue such letters. But this was of little concern to Mock, the self-styled Marquis of Malaz. A title no state acknowledged either. When any ruler was forced to speak of him, Sail knew he was usually referred to as ‘that damned outlaw of Malaz Island’. And she was certain that in private their language was even less flattering.

She was at the bottom of the wide stairs that opened on to the main hall and thinking of heading to the kitchens for a late breakfast, when she caught sight of something that nearly made her trip and fall. She grasped hold of the stone balustrade and stared at the person who had just come in – was that really …

Aged, yet tall and lean, with an aristocratic air, her thick long mane of dark hair shot with streaks of grey – by all the daemons of her youth! It was her.

Sail stalked across the hall. She had to stop herself from pushing up her sleeves and raising her Thyr Warren as she went.

‘Agayla!’ she called. ‘What are you doing here?’

The willow-thin woman turned, raising a brow, and Sail experienced that same old sensation of being looked down upon. Her teacher and mentor offered that too-familiar indulgent smile. ‘Why, Jay, what a pleasure to see you. Still here, I see.’

‘What do you mean, still here? Of course I’m still here! And it’s Sail now,’ she added, then hated how petulant that sounded.

Agayla shrugged. ‘Well, one never knows the vicissitudes of nobility, does one? Especially the men.’

‘I am mistress of this Hold, I’ll have you know.’

‘And where is your master?’

Sail stuttered, tongue-tied as always by her old teacher. She cleared her throat and began again, ‘Mock is elsewhere. May I help you?’ But Agayla had turned away and was now gesturing to the door, inviting in two burly workers who carried over their shoulders a large roll of cloth. ‘And what is this?’ Sail asked.

Agayla crossed her wiry arms. ‘My commission, of course. A tapestry for the main hall.’

Great gods! I’m going to have to stare at her work over dinner? Sail collected herself, crossing her own arms. ‘A commission? Truly? Your work will be a wonderful addition to our Hold.’

Agayla regarded her for a time, her lips compressed. ‘Jay … why are you here? There are academies in Itko Kan that would take you in an instant. You are wasting your potential here.’

Sail let her arms fall. A record. Back to the old argument in less than two minutes. She turned away, sighing. ‘Agayla – I will go to the mainland. But I will arrive as the Marquessa of Malaz.’

The old mage snorted her scorn. ‘Meaningless titles. You can achieve far more than such pretty baubles.’

It took a strong effort to control herself, but Sail managed, swallowing her anger. ‘Auntie, thank you for all that you have done for me. But with respect, it is no longer any of your business.’

The old woman’s gaze narrowed, and Sail briefly recalled her youthful dread of this woman’s temper. ‘It is my business, Jay. Nurturing this island’s talent is one of my duties – among others. And I would be negligent if I allowed a promising student to waste her time hanging on the arm of a cheap brigand.’

Sail felt her own expression harden into a frozen mask. She inclined her head in dismissal. ‘You may hang your tapestry, weaver. Good day.’ She turned her back and walked away.

* * *

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 the 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?’

‘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 displeasure 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.’

‘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.

‘Our hostess, Surly.’

Wu straightened, lowering his hands. ‘Oh. Well, never mind then.’

Dancer leaned back against the door and crossed his arms. ‘Actually, there does seem to be more to her than meets the eye.’

Wu was rummaging behind the desk. He pulled up three canvas pouches and set them on the empty surface. Raising a finger, he added, ‘As with us, my friend. As with us.’

Dancer pushed himself from the door, advancing. ‘True.’

Wu examined the leather ties securing the pouches. ‘Nothing special that I can see…’

‘What of Warren-laid traps?’

Wu yanked his hands away. ‘I don’t detect anything … but not my field of expertise.’ He offered one sack to Dancer, who raised his hands high.

‘You’re the mage.’

‘You’re the thief.’

‘Not a thief,’ Dancer corrected.

Wu drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘Semantics.’ He picked up one pouch and examined its tie. ‘Fine. I’ll have you know that I’m the one taking all the risk here.’

‘If it’s a Telas explosion, we’ll both be consumed.’

Wu shrugged. ‘Oh. In that case.’ He pulled on the leather tie and it easily untwined. He upended the pouch. Small items individually wrapped in twists of parchment slid out on to the desk.

Both examined what looked like nothing more than a collection of sweets. Wu picked one up and studied it. ‘Writing on the parchment. Some kind of code.’

‘Seller and buyer?’ Dancer suggested.

‘Perhaps.’

Wu gently unfolded the parchment, revealing the small, hard object at its centre. Both craned forward, breaths held. Wu screwed up his eyes until only one was open. Dancer plucked the object from the wrap to examine it between thumb and forefinger. It was shaped like a pebble, oval, yet curled around itself with a narrow opening, white with tan stripes.

He refocused his puzzled gaze on Wu. ‘It’s a fucking seashell.’

Wu held out a hand. ‘Let me see.’ Dancer dropped it into his palm. Wu held it a hair’s breadth from an eye. ‘Damn. It really is a shell. Not one I know, either.’

Dancer threw himself from the desk. ‘Who the Abyss cares what kind? What is this? A scam? Did you swap these out?’

Wu threw up his hands. ‘Now, now. Let us examine the evidence here. Are these the pouches you saw?’

Dancer was pacing, cursing himself. Took the wrong Hood-damned packages! Should’ve searched her! He waved a hand. ‘Yeah. Fine. Decoys. Hood-damned decoys. Fell for it like an amateur.’

Wu raised a finger. ‘Not necessarily.’ He juggled the shell in his hand. ‘These look like a very rare type of shell. One that I have never before seen. And Dal Hon has a long coastline. Some tribes even use them—’ He cut himself off, his thick brows rising.

‘Well?’ Dancer demanded.

Wu set the shell down and opened another wrap to reveal a near-identical shell. He drummed his fingers on the desk once more, deep in thought. Finally, he breathed, ‘Well. This is awkward.’

Dancer paced. ‘How so? What is it?’

Wu tapped his fingertips together. ‘The problem is one of how to transport money – or value – on an island populated entirely by thieves and pirates.’

Dancer stopped pacing; faced him. ‘So … these are just tokens? Tokens of value these merchants agree to honour because they have no value elsewhere?’

‘For certain large exchanges, clearly.’

‘No wonder that guard laughed … So, what do we do?’

‘Change of tactics, obviously.’

‘Yes. Forget about cornering the markets. We should switch to protection and extortion. Take control that way.’

Wu sighed. ‘So much more messy. But, agreed.’ He started repacking the shells. ‘Why does everything have to be so damned difficult? That’s what I want to know.’