Deadhouse Landing

Chapter 6

Dancer sat at a table in Smiley’s, sharpening all his knives. It was morning and the place was quiet, but then it was always quiet. Amiss sat with him. She was leaning back in her chair, a heeled shoe against a table leg, rocking. Tea lay before him in a chipped stoneware cup, cold and forgotten. He was working on his seventh blade and had finished with the whetstone before moving on to his finer grit dry-stone. After finishing both edges to his satisfaction he polished them with a few final draws across leather, turning the knife absent-mindedly; he found it a very contemplative ritual.

Amiss eyed him for a time, then ventured, ‘Don’t worry. He’ll show up.’

He drew down his mouth, shot her a glance. ‘Who?’

‘Your partner – he always shows up eventually.’

He tested the edge of the blade and sheathed it. ‘Whatever. I’m not worried.’

‘Course not. You’re just grinding your blades down to nothing.’

‘Don’t you have duties or something?’

She stretched her long lean arms overhead, grinning at him. ‘I’m off right now.’

He glowered, drew yet another thin blade from an ankle sheath, tested its edge and set to brushing it over the whetstone. ‘What’s the word on Geffen?’

‘Withdrawn. Hunkered down. As if they’re waiting for us to storm them in their stronghold.’

‘Not likely,’ Dancer answered without looking up.

‘Funny. That’s what Surly said: no need.’

He grunted at that.

‘How ’bout those lessons you promised?’

He looked up. ‘Like what?’

‘Like close-in fighting.’

He shrugged, sheathed the knife. ‘Sure. Out back, I suppose.’

Hawl entered, spotted him, and headed over. She looked as she always did: dishevelled, with tangled hair and tattered mud-smeared skirts. He wondered whether she ever washed or changed her clothes. Mages! The strangest sort. Still, Grinner didn’t seem to mind.

‘That ship,’ she announced, ‘the Twisted. It’s up for sale. We’re buying it, right? That’s the plan?’

Amiss screwed up her face. ‘That cursed scow?’

Dancer drew breath, only to realize that Wu wasn’t here and that he didn’t know what the damned fool intended. ‘Yeah,’ he managed, swallowing his fury. ‘That’s the plan.’

Both Hawl and Amiss asked, ‘How?’

He made a vague gesture. ‘Got funds hidden away. Listen, keep watch. Find out if there’re any takers. Identify them. Yes?’

The mage’s answering grin was knowing. ‘Right. Can’t have a bidding war, hey?’ She went to the kitchen, no doubt to report to Surly.

Amiss was watching him expectantly. ‘So? Where’s all this coin? In your socks?’

He sat back, his jaws clenching, and ground out, ‘It’s coming…’

* * *

By time the evening arrived Dancer was fairly vibrating with frustration and annoyance. Where was the bastard? Didn’t he understand that they had plans in motion? That he couldn’t just take off like this, without talking to anyone?

Cold soup lay before him and he sat alone. The Napan crew seemed to be able to sense his dark mood and occupied other tables.

What were they to do? Kidnap the owner and force him to sign over the papers? Then what? A splash in the harbour, no doubt. But Dancer was no murderer. He was a killer, yes, but not a plain murderer. To his mind the difference was as vast as a chasm.

It was at that moment that the front door creaked open and Wu walked in. He was humming nonchalantly to himself and slapping sand and dust from his sleeves.

Dancer surged from his table. ‘Where have you been?’

Wu froze in mid-stride, mouth open. He brought a hand to his chin. ‘Well … I should think you’d know.’

Dancer waved that aside. ‘Yes, yes. What I mean is, you’ve been gone for ages. Without word. Leaving the rest of us to manage. I had no idea when to expect you, or even if you’d come back at all!’

The lad’s wrinkled old man brows rose. ‘Why, Dancer – I had no idea you cared.’

The fury that this ridiculous fellow was able to raise in Dancer almost choked him. Through clenched teeth he ground out, ‘We’re supposed to be partners…’

From across the bar Grinner called, ‘Could you two take your lovers’ spat upstairs?’

Dancer shot the swordsman a glare, then gestured Wu to the stairs. The mage shrugged and headed up.

Shutting the office door, Dancer turned on him. ‘Don’t you ever—’

Wu shot a finger into the air with a grin that looked rather evil and maniacal on his wizened features, ‘Progress, my friend! Great progress!’

Dancer stared, stunned for a moment. ‘Really? Progress? How so?’

Wu brushed more dust from his dark jacket. He glanced round, spotted a carafe of water on the side table and took a long drink. Swallowing, he gasped, ‘The gate. I think I may have it…’

Dancer eased into a ready stance, his shoulders falling. ‘Really? It’s open?’

The Dal Hon mage raised thumb and forefinger to his eye, a fraction apart. ‘One smidgen from it.’

Dancer leaned back against the door, looked to the ceiling. ‘So … it’s not open.’

‘It will be!’ the mage insisted. He swallowed another mouthful, then waved a hand and started rummaging at the desk. ‘That’s why I came back. To get you. For the last stage.’

‘So I’m supposed to be grateful?’

Wu was studying a handful of his notes and drawings. He peered up, blinking. ‘Well, yes. But not just that. Together we’ve managed to overcome all obstacles to date. Your muscle and my brain!’

Dancer felt the hackles at his neck rising. ‘You mean my muscle and brains and your … insanity.’

The little mage looked offended, and sniffed, ‘I think not.’ He pulled a satchel from beneath the desk and shoved a handful of the papers into it. ‘We’ll need food and water.’

Dancer raised a hand. ‘Whoa. Food and water for what?’

‘For the journey. Who knows what we will find?’

Dancer crossed his arms. ‘No. Not tonight. You need to rest and we both need to prepare. In a few days. Okay?’

Wu hugged the satchel to his chest, his mouth agape in disbelief. ‘What? A few days?’

‘That gate’s been there for what … a millennium? It’s not going anywhere.’

‘But…’

Dancer raised a warning finger. ‘And no sneaking out without me!’ The little mage thumped down into the chair, the satchel still clutched to his chest. ‘Good. Oh, one last thing. Word’s come that the Twisted is up for sale. What do we do? Do we have the funds?’

Wu nodded absently, pouting, his gaze on the cluttered desktop. ‘Yes. I believe so. Arrange a meeting here tomorrow.’

‘Good. I’ll put Surly on it.’

Wu stirred, half-heartedly raising a finger. ‘Be seen ordering her and the others around. It warms the locals’ hearts to see the Napans being bossed about.’

Dancer nodded, thinking, And I wonder how Surly will take that? Maybe she’ll actually see the sense in it. ‘Okay. Tomorrow, then.’ He nodded his goodbye and pulled the door shut behind him. He would have locked it if it had a lock on the outside. Shaking his head, he went to find Surly.

After making the arrangements, he thumped back down at his table. It was long into the night when he finished the last blade.

* * *

The next morning a knock at his door woke him. He wiped groggily at his face, called, ‘Yes?’

‘Noon,’ a woman answered. Shrift. ‘The owner says he’ll come at noon.’

‘Okay.’ He dressed and went down to break his fast.

The Napan crew were already up and about, seeing to their assigned duties for the day: guarding various properties, showing the flag on the streets, and generally letting everyone know who was in charge of the bars, warehouses and flop-houses they controlled.

After his meal of stewed barley, cheese, a wedge of bread, and an apple – a meal he selected very carefully, imagining that not even Urko could ruin it – he went upstairs and knocked on the office door. He waited, but no one answered. A flush of sudden rage took him by the throat and he threw open the door.

Wu was leaning back behind the desk, feet up, fingers twined over his chest, snoring. Dancer felt a twinge of guilt over his anger and gently closed the door behind him. He crossed to the side table and poured a glass of water, set it on the desk, and loudly cleared his throat.

Wu coughed, smacked his lips, and cracked open one eye.

Oddly, the wet snoring noise continued in the room. It seemed to be coming from overhead. Dancer slowly raised his gaze to the rafters above and there lay the hairy long-limbed nacht, pink mouth agape, fast asleep. He threw a wadded sheet of parchment at it and it coughed, smacked its lips, and cracked open one eye.

Dancer experienced an odd sensation of déjà vu.

Wu spotted the glass of water and drank it. He stretched, groaning – as did the nacht above – and drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘So, what’s the word?’

‘Noon. He’s coming at noon.’

‘Excellent.’

Dancer sat on the edge of the desk. ‘And … we do have the money, yes?’

‘Oh, yes. After a fashion.’

He didn’t like the sound of that, but refrained from questioning. He already knew the fellow didn’t like to explain himself. ‘Fine. You should eat.’

‘Have Surly send up a meal.’

To that Dancer could only crook a brow. ‘I don’t think that would go over so well.’

Wu raised a finger into the air. ‘Appearances, my friend. One must maintain appearances.’

Dancer straightened. ‘Well, if you put it that way…’ He headed to the door.

Behind, he heard Wu conspicuously clear his throat, and he turned back. ‘Yes?’

The little fellow was twining his fingers together, his belly up against the desk. ‘I’ve been thinking about what to call myself…’

Dancer nodded. ‘I noticed.’

Wu gave a curt bob of his head. ‘Indeed. Like you, I think I require a new working name. But in my case something grand, of course.’

Dancer clenched his lips tight and let out a hard breath. ‘Like?’

‘Well … something with the strong hard kay sound, like Keth, or Kell. Plus, the sinister and menacing vee sound, such as Val, or Veth, or Ved.’

Dancer looked to the ceiling. Oh, good gods …

Wu was oblivious, as usual. ‘Like Vethkedell the … something or other. Murderous, maybe. Or Menacing.’

‘No.’

Wu blinked, surprised. ‘No? No to what?’

‘To that. Something else with kell and ved.’

Wu’s head shot up. ‘What was that?’

‘What was what?’

‘There. What you just said. Kell … something.’

‘Kell and ved.’

Wu snapped his fingers. ‘That’s it! Very well done, my friend.’

Dancer felt his brows crimping in confusion, and annoyance. What in the Abyss just happened? He gestured to the door. ‘I’ll have a meal sent up, then.’

Wu waved his hands impatiently. ‘No, no. Not now. Have Surly deliver it during the negotiations.’

Dancer wanted to raise his fists to him, but refrained. He sighed instead in tired resignation. ‘Fine. During the negotiations.’ He opened the door. Wu leaned back, setting his dusty-heeled shoes on the desk, and knitted his hands over his stomach, a satisfied smile taking shape on his face. Dancer headed downstairs.

* * *

The owner arrived at noon. Dancer had Tocaras and Choss tail him from the vessel to make certain there would be no interference from Geffen and his boys. He was a veteran raider, grey-haired and grizzled. He entered the common room and stood peering round in the relative dark, uncertain whom to address. Dancer was waiting next to the door and he extended a hand to invite him upstairs. As he followed him up, it occurred to him that the owner looked just as worn down as his vessel. His eyes were bloodshot, red-rimmed and sunken, and his cheeks, which showed an unhealthy grey pallor, unshaven and drawn. He looked like a man who hadn’t slept well in a very long time.

Dancer reached round him to open the office door, and Wu came out from behind the desk to invite him in.

‘Kellanved,’ Wu introduced himself, and Dancer blinked, startled.

‘Durard,’ the old fellow growled.

Wu – Kellanved? – motioned to a chair. ‘Please, sit. Care for a drink?’

‘Wouldn’t say no to a glass,’ the fellow answered, and sat with a weary sigh.

Wu – Kellanved? Dancer repeated to himself – looked to him. ‘Would you be so kind?’

Dancer went to the side table to pour a glass of their best wine, which, if he was being honest, wasn’t really all that good. Setting it before Durard, he went to sit over by the window and stretched out his legs.

Kellanved returned to the desk. ‘Looking to put the sea behind you, yes?’ he said.

Durard blinked at him, confused for a moment, then nodded. ‘Ah, right. I suppose so.’

Dancer was repeating the strange new name to himself. Kellanved … what in the Abyss kind of name was that supposed to be? It didn’t sound Dal Hon at all. And it sure didn’t mean anything – he’d just made it up.

‘Strange for someone to simply up and buy a ship, you know,’ Durard was saying. ‘Usually it’s consortiums of merchants, or groups of owners. Like partners. Or cities, a’ course.’

‘Of course,’ the mage answered, all soothing and agreeable. He motioned to Dancer. ‘I do have a partner.’ Durard glanced over and tilted his head in acknowledgement, then cleared his throat.

‘So … how d’ya want to do this? Got letters of credit or such? Bullion?’

There came a knock at the door and Dancer rose to answer. It was Surly, carrying a tray with fruit, bread, and cheese. She gave Dancer a dark look and pushed past. At the desk she banged down the tray, gave Kellanved a look that could only be described as surly, and sauntered out.

‘Ah, yes … well. Thank you, Surly.’ Kellanved offered the food to Durard then tapped his fingers together, elbows on the desk. ‘So, payment. Yes. Well, I do have something that I believe would serve here on the island. They are quite valuable – or so I’m told.’

He rummaged down under the desk and came up with a bag that he set on the desk. Dancer recognized it as one of the canvas pouches from the hijacking.

Durard leaned forward to peer in and his eyes fairly goggled as he saw what the bag held.

Wu – Kellanved – set down another pouch next to the first.

Durard’s brows rose even higher.

Kellanved then set down the third and leaned back, clasping his hands before his chin. ‘I do hope that this will cover the price.’

Durard’s amazed gaze moved from the bags to Kellanved and back again. He coughed into a fist, stammering, ‘Ah! Well … All three, you say?’

Kellanved nodded.

The captain slammed a hand to the desk. ‘Done! You drive a hard bargain, friend!’ He threw back the rest of his wine and raised the glass. ‘Perhaps another…?’

Dancer almost fell out of his chair. He glared bloody murder at Kellanved. Behind Durard, he mouthed, What the Abyss! and threw open his arms. Throughout the display the Dal Hon kept a stony face. Though seething, Dancer took the captain’s glass. ‘Certainly.’

Durard produced the paperwork from within his jacket. ‘Have you a quill, then, old man?’

Kellanved blinked, uncertain; then realization came to him that it was he who was being addressed as ‘old man’ and he started, then searched about the desk for quill and ink. Finally, after much fumbling and drawer-banging, he produced a set.

‘There you are,’ Durard said, signing. ‘The fine ship the Twisted. Serve you well, she will. Fast into the wind.’

Fast to the bottom, Dancer amended silently. Handing the captain his refilled glass, he reflected that Kellanved, now, was at least being consistent. First he purchases a wreck of a bar; now he purchases a wreck of a ship. The fool was resolutely grinding them into failure and penury.

Durard tossed back the wine and stood, then slipped the lightest pouch into a pocket within his jacket. The others would not fit and so he used the cut ties to hang them over a shoulder, snug down his side. He saluted Kellanved. ‘Pleasure doing business with you, sir.’

Kellanved nodded benignly. ‘All mine, I assure you. My thanks.’

Grinning, Durard sent Dancer a nod of farewell. Dancer showed him out. The fellow obviously left in a far better mood than when he’d entered; he was fairly chuckling. Dancer returned to the office and shut the door. The mage was munching on the cheese and bread. ‘So,’ Dancer began, ‘Kellanved, is it?’

The lad swallowed. ‘Yes – and many thanks.’

‘What’s it supposed to mean?’

Kellanved peered round, uncertain. ‘Mean? It’s just a name. A pseudonym. A veil to hide a thousand crimes; a rallying cry in battle; a curse on our terrified enemies; a—’

Dancer waved him short. ‘I get the idea. But you just made it up!’

Kellanved sniffed. ‘I gave you no such grief over your selection.’

Dancer waved his impatience again. ‘Fine.’ He poured himself a drink. ‘So … you’re determined to bankrupt us by throwing all our funds away.’

Kellanved leaned back, knitted his fingers before his chin. ‘Those shells? Faugh! Useless to us. But the Napans … invaluable. And we must have a ship.’

‘If you can call it that,’ Dancer muttered into his glass.

‘Come, come! These Napans are great sailors. They’ll have it shipshape in no time at all. In two shakes of a lamb’s tail.’

‘Tell them that.’

‘No, you will.’ He slapped his hands together. ‘Now I must prepare for tomorrow.’

Dancer set down the glass. Great – he got to deliver the happy news. ‘Tomorrow then.’

Kellanved nodded absently, his thoughts already elsewhere.

* * *

Tattersail and Mock were having a private dinner in the hall; until recently such a thing was rather rare, as dinners were usually all-evening affairs where Mock and a raucous group of his select captains and officers would drink, trade stories, drink more, fight drunken duels, make up, and end up singing drinking songs long into the predawn light.

Tattersail would always excuse herself early from these gatherings and retire to their quarters. But even there sleep would be hard to come as the echoes of their laughter and cheers would reach even into the bedchamber.

And so she’d put her foot down with Mock that every so often they would sit together for a civilized meal – just the two of them. And as usual he’d complied, kissing her hand, murmuring, ‘What would he do without his Tattersail?’

This evening, despite definite orders from Tattersail that they were not to be disturbed, a liveried servant pushed open one leaf of the double doors, slid within, and approached. Currently, the livery consisted of bright purple velvet with gold trim, Mock having been very impressed by such a combination flaunted by a visiting foreign dignitary from some backwater in Genabackis lands.

Mock drained his sixth or seventh glass of wine and gave Sail an apologetic shrug, as if to say: Matters of state, my dear. For her part, she wished he didn’t drink so much. Especially as it did his performance no favours in bed.

Mock addressed the servant. ‘Yes?’

The lad extended a tube of horn, sealed with a dollop of bright blue wax. ‘Message from Nap, m’lord. Just arrived by cutter.’

Mock’s brows shot up. ‘Ah!’ He yanked it from the lad and waved him off. He examined the seal, squinting, then showed it to Tattersail. ‘See that? Kings get to do things like that. They have rings for it, you know.’

‘Yes, Mock.’

He broke the seal and drew out a small scroll of fine creamy vellum. Struggling rather, as he was only marginally literate, he read the message it contained. Then he let out a great laugh, slapping the page, and regarded her, winking. ‘There you go! Brother regent he calls me! He proposes a joint raid to seal our pact. A dawn raid on Cawn – at the equinox.’

Sail mentally did the maths. ‘That’s in four – no, five weeks’ time.’

Mock nodded. ‘He’s obviously granting us time to refit and prepare.’

Yes, Sail reflected sourly – the emissary must have seen the sad state of the men-o-war. ‘Do you trust him?’ she asked.

Mock was pouring himself a fresh glass. ‘Trust him? He’s a king! He has to be good to his word. It’s all reputation, you understand.’

‘I understand that,’ she answered, insulted. ‘What I mean is … what if it’s a trick? A ploy to draw you out.’

‘A ploy?’ He lowered the glass from his mouth, regarded her in the manner that irritated her so – as if she were a child. ‘Tattersail, dear. You heard the stories of the civil war that raged across Nap. The capital burned. Entire fleets scuttled in defiance of his rule! He’s weakened.’ Mock threw out his arms expansively, as if aggrieved. ‘He obviously can’t pull off a raid like this alone and is proposing cooperation as a demonstration of faith. Plus,’ and he tossed back his glass, ‘he knows I want revenge on those damned Cawnese merchants.’

‘Exactly…’ Sail muttered. It still troubled her; and yet, did one not have to take risks to make any advances? And was she not considering a raid herself? ‘Well,’ she answered grudgingly, ‘I would prefer it if it were us alone.’

Mock smoothed his long moustaches, grinning. ‘Of course, dearest. And you will be there to keep any eye on them. Any sign of treachery and they’re yours.’

She narrowed her gaze. ‘And you as well, yes?’

The proposal seemed to have caught him unprepared. He sat back, threw an arm over the rear of his chair. ‘Well … it will take all vessels and captains. There will be none to spare. And Tarel himself will not be accompanying his force, I assure you of that!’

‘Then you will outshine him.’

The idea obviously pleased Mock. His smile grew, and he nodded, stroking his moustaches once more.

At that moment there came shouts from the doorway. Some sort of scuffle. Tattersail thought she heard something about not being put off.

Mock yelled down the length of the main hall in a very un-kinglike manner: ‘What is it, dammit!’

One leaf of the double doors opened and the same liveried servant slipped in. With him came the shout, ‘The puffed-up bastard better see me!’

Mock rolled his eyes. ‘Is that you, Geffen?’ He waved for the servant to admit him. The lad spoke to the guards and moments later a tall lean fellow was admitted, straightening his shirts and belt where weapons had obviously been yanked away.

Sail eyed the glowering fellow. So this was Geffen, Mock’s man in town. She’d heard he’d been having trouble lately from a gang of Napans who were stranded there.

Mock refilled his glass, peered down at the man. ‘What is it, Geffen,’ he stated in a deliberately flat tone.

‘Come to warn you.’

‘Whatever for?’

‘About these damned Napans—’

Mock cut him off. ‘Not again. I’ve told you – if you can’t handle things then that’s your lookout.’

The scars that traced the fellow’s face like a latticework grew white as his features darkened, and he glared near murder. Tattersail was almost tempted to raise her Warren.

‘Not them,’ he grated. ‘The two they work for. One’s a pro from the mainland. A trained killer. My boys can’t handle him. The other’s a godsdamned mage. And he’s one scary practitioner. None of the local talent will go near him.’

Tattersail almost laughed aloud at that patent exaggeration.

Mock sipped his wine. ‘So what is all this to me?’

‘I can’t tackle a mage. But you can.’ He pointed to Tattersail. ‘Send her down to blast them to Hood’s teeth.’

Mock crooked a brow, grinning. ‘Really?’ He looked across to her. ‘Tattersail, dear. Do I send you anywhere?’

She peered down at Geffen, making no effort to conceal her disgust. ‘I choose to use my talents to support Mock. And I strike only ships. I don’t murder people in the streets. Especially not on the say-so of some lowlife criminal.’

‘Guess I’m just the wrong lowlife criminal, then. Listen, dearie, sailors die when those ships go down, don’t fool yourself.’ He returned his attention to Mock. ‘If you won’t help me, then I’ll help myself. I’m sending word for a professional from the mainland. Someone to take them down. Just so you know. You brought this about.’

Mock waved him off. ‘Hardly. And don’t come back here again, Gef. I don’t consort with your kind.’

‘You don’t shit gold, Mock. I knew you when you was a no-good backstabbing murderer yourself.’

Mock sent a pained smile to Tattersail. ‘I’m a freebooter,’ he answered. ‘If I killed anyone it was on the high seas with swords crossed in battle.’

Geffen snorted his derision and turned on his heel.

‘Nothing public!’ Mock shouted after him down the hall. ‘Don’t scare off the merchants!’

Tattersail eyed him rather narrowly, and he cleared his throat, his mood obviously broken. He lifted the glass, saluting her, and downed the last of its contents. ‘Well … preparations. We must refit the men-o-war.’ He rose to his feet, unsteady. ‘So, celebrations in honour of this pact, hm? I shall await you in my chambers, yes?’

She nodded, smiling. ‘Yes. You go ahead, dearest. I’ll join you shortly.’

He answered her smile, smoothing his moustaches, and headed to the stairs, staggering slightly. Tattersail knew that by the time she joined him he’d be dead asleep. She sat in silence, considering Geffen’s harsh words. It was true, no doubt, that some sailors died when their vessels broke apart – but that was anyone’s risk in joining battle. She’d never deliberately killed anyone. And it was something she didn’t think she could ever bring herself to do.

She eyed her rosewater tea, cold now. Well, if all went as planned she wouldn’t have to worry about such things again. She wouldn’t have to get her hands dirty at all. There would be others to order about for that.

Brother regent, Tarel had named Mock, apparently. Hollow flattery? Then again, wasn’t the story that the man had murdered his own sister to come to power?

She did not like that. No, not at all.

* * *

Tayschrenn walked the lightless tunnels of the deepness far beneath the Temple of D’rek’s lowest halls. He walked with his powers raised to their utmost sizzling heights, his hands clasped firmly behind his back, barely aware of his surroundings, his senses cast far off in a maze of power conjunctions and interstices that wove and danced between the walls of the Warrens themselves. He did this offhandedly, though he’d heard that maintaining such a pitch of strength and focus was a feat rather difficult for other mages.

He knew such research was forbidden, touching as it did upon other Warrens – Thyr especially, but Rashan and others as well. He sensed underlying truths, however, and would pursue them wherever they may lead. And, recently, such hints had been drawing him ever closer to the half-forgotten ancient figure of K’rul.

So he walked the night-dark tunnels, sensing, briefly, the far deeper murmurations of Burn herself within D’riss, and the accompanying soothing rhythms of D’rek.

Starved of light, his eyes came to play tricks upon him, and so he was dismissive at first of one particular weaving spark of illumination as it seemed to draw near. Eventually, however, the spark resolved into a flickering golden flame and he was startled to realize that someone was holding it upright as they came.

He stopped, as did the newcomer. He studied the person as one might interrogate a mirage. Female, near his age, a far lower-ranked priestess unfamiliar to him, holding a torch and carrying a small iron box under one arm.

She bowed to him, murmuring, ‘Tayschrenn.’

He answered the bow. ‘Priestess.’

The resins and pitch of the torch popped and hissed between them, unnaturally loud in the utter silence. The torch he understood; and after a moment, the box as well. Many were the annual rituals and observations that the cult of D’rek was required to perform, and this box must be concerned with one such. Few knew the list of all the duties. Perhaps the box held an item that had to be replenished, or a scroll to be read in a certain location, or some offering to be made at a certain day and time. Or, some whispered, unmentionable food for things that had to be fed.

The priestess bowed again, murmured, ‘My condolences,’ and continued on her way.

He turned after her, his brows crimping. ‘I’m sorry – did you say “condolences”?’

She stopped, turned as well. ‘Oh. I am sorry. I thought you knew. Our guiding light, Lord Demidrek Ithell, passed on not two days ago.’

‘Ah – I see. No, I did not know. Thank you for informing me.’

The priestess bowed again, then went away down the tunnel.

Tayschrenn watched the sputtering flame of her torch diminish into the distance, turn an unseen corner, and be swallowed by the dark. He searched his emotions. He knew that the man’s death had been close, was inevitable, and that he should rejoice now that D’rek had taken him to her breast. Yet he was saddened. The man had been a kind spirit. Had shown him great generosity and patience. Had been the closest thing he could consider to a father, given that he possessed no memories of his life prior to his abandonment to the streets. Turning, he quickened his pace and headed to the nearest route up.

* * *

He found the main halls of the temple complex given over to the requisite mourning. Candles burned at every intersection and those ranked of the black all walked with cowls raised, heads bowed in prayer. Incantation and whispered songs of veneration murmured through the halls.

He headed for the Demidrek’s private quarters to offer his services, should there be anything to be done.

Here he found his way barred by a lower-ranked priest, one Feneresh, of no particular talent save a rigid unimaginative devotion to the rules and procedural minutiae of the cult.

‘Tayschrenn,’ the younger man greeted him. ‘What is your business?’

He was rather taken aback by the blunt words, but collected himself. ‘I offer my services, of course, should they be required.’

The fellow inclined his shaven head in acknowledgement, his thin lips pursing. ‘All is taken care of. You need not concern yourself.’

‘I see. Well, may I kneel before our Demidrek and offer my prayers?’

‘The remains have been removed for interment. You are free to pray before the icons of the Demidreks in the temple proper, of course.’

Tayschrenn tried to peer in past the shorter fellow to the private quarters beyond, but all was shrouded in darkness and low guttering candles. ‘I see. Very well. My thanks, brother.’

‘Of course. Glory be to D’rek.’

‘Ah … yes.’ He turned to go, but Feneresh cleared his throat and so he turned back. ‘Yes?’

The priest pointed to his waist. ‘Your honorary rank has been rescinded, of course.’

Tayschrenn frowned, confused for a moment, then realization came and he started. ‘Oh! Of course.’ He unwrapped the crimson sash and handed it over. Feneresh folded the cloth and tucked it away.

Tayschrenn bowed his farewell and turned to leave, but the younger priest cleared his throat once more. He swung back, rather vexed now. ‘What is it?’

Feneresh tapped a finger to his cowl. Tayschrenn frowned again, but suddenly understood and offered a stiff smile. He threw up his cowl and marched off.

Twice in his life Tayschrenn had experienced the terror of earthquakes when the very rock shook beneath one’s feet and was revealed as unreliable, even deceptive. And as he walked the dim halls to his cell it struck him as odd that although this time the rock had not moved, he felt just as shaken. Just as in an earthquake, a blow had struck unlooked for and sudden, and he felt knocked sideways, strangely unsure of everything.

He needed to find his centre once more. He needed to meditate. Most of all, he needed to consider why his hands were fists hidden within his robes, why his pulse was a painful pressure at his temples and his breath short and laboured – and why he, a priest, was boiling with rage.

* * *

Three days later Tayschrenn was once more sitting in the Great Hall of the temple, a bowl of thin vegetable broth and a crust of dry bread before him. He’d studiously avoided the hall these last few days, but a General Assembly had been called and so he felt obliged to attend. The broad cavernous chamber was now more jammed than he had ever seen it.

An air of expectancy permeated the crowd, and whispered rumours of what was to come made the rounds. As a high-ranking priest, he’d been asked what he thought; his answer that such speculation was a waste of time as they’d know shortly had effectively silenced his interlocutors.

The benches were uncomfortably packed, but another newcomer was pressing in next to him and he felt a hand upon his arm. He looked up to see Silla. Sitting, she squeezed his hand. ‘I’m sorry, Tay. I know you were very close to him.’

He nodded. ‘Thank you.’

The murmuring and talk faded away as the Council of Elders filed into the hall. With them came Tallow, looking like a bull among a line of thin doddering storks and ragged dusty crows. His place near the centre of the front table troubled Tayschrenn. Normally, a visiting official or dignitary would be seated at one end.

Lukathera-amil rose to speak. She was Hengan, one of the dusty dishevelled crows. She was well liked, known affectionately as Luka among the lower ranks. She raised her arms for silence, though the hall was now utterly quiet.

‘Kindred,’ she began, her rough voice thin and dry, ‘we are gathered here this eve to underscore and reaffirm one of the guiding principles of D’rek – that of continuity and reiteration. The eternal reprise and return of life and death.’

Her fellow elders banged upon the table in affirmation and the audience applauded – though quietly, and respectfully, as was proper.

Luka bowed her head for a time, then continued, ‘Though we have lost one dear to our hearts, he is not gone. He is gathered to the breast of D’rek, and for this we must rejoice. We, each of us, may look forward to being reunited with him together with all of the righteous at the side of D’rek when our time, too, shall come.

‘In this time of testing, we are blessed to have among us – due to the wisdom of the Synod of Temples – brother Tallow.’ She motioned towards him and he rose, bowed, then sat down again. ‘He has graciously agreed to serve as interim high priest and Demidrek until we, the Council, have chosen Ithell’s successor.’

The assembly applauded again, respectfully. The elders of the Council joined the applause, their quavering hands soundlessly tapping.

Luka raised her arms once more. ‘That is all. Now, let us bow our heads in prayer and thanksgiving.’ She lowered her head.

Tayschrenn joined in, of course, but search as he might among his thoughts he could not find any single thing to be thankful for. He prayed instead for wisdom among the Council, for the idea of Tallow as temporary Demidrek troubled him. Why couldn’t they simply have chosen someone and be done with it?

Later, during the meal, Silla whispered to him once more, ‘You’re not wearing your red?’

‘It was taken from me.’

‘Oh – I’m sorry.’

‘It matters not.’ He paused, considering, then asked, ‘What do you think of this Tallow as temporary high priest?’

She frowned, as serious as ever regarding temple business. ‘Well … it is good to have someone responsible in the interim. Things need to continue while the Council deliberates. And at least he’s younger and vital, more energetic. He has made quite an impression here with his decisiveness.’

‘Decisive. Well, I suppose he is that.’

Her gaze narrowed upon him. ‘You are not so sanguine?’

He could not tell her of the man’s words and actions in regard to himself, and so he merely shrugged. ‘It makes me uneasy … an outsider taking charge of the temple.’

She looked at her own bowl of thin broth. ‘He’s hardly taking charge, Tay. It’s a temporary posting only. And as to being an outsider – well, he’s the Invigilator. A trained investigator of the cult.’

He smiled thinly, for her benefit. ‘Of course.’