The Traitor God

Chapter 5

It was a short drop from the window to the cobbles, and then I was off through the warren of alleys in the opposite direction to Fisherman’s Way. My eyes darted to everyone I encountered, taking their measure. Paranoia had served me well over the years.

I knew that I looked like an idiot in the oversized tunic and patched trousers I’d stolen from the inn, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. The inn’s locks had been a joke for my picks and the clothes newly laundered and laid out in some poor sod’s room. They’d have to repay the man. Served them right for overcharging me.

My head snapped up as a shadow moved beneath a broken cart. I sighed in relief as the hairy black head of a hound peeked out to snuffle along the ground. Ha, I wished those shadow cats luck trying to find my scent – magical or otherwise – through the alleys of the Warrens. Any nose that sensitive would suffer in streets awash with raw sewage.

First stop was Charra. If anybody knew the details of what happened to Lynas it would be her. I also hoped to pick up all my old gear I’d hidden away before boarding the first ship leaving Setharis ten years ago. I would need every weapon I could get. They had hopefully sat undisturbed in a chest at Charra’s Place all this time. I really hoped that she hadn’t let curiosity get the better of her. I didn’t fancy mourning two friends today. The twists and turns of the streets were unfamiliar to me now, and it would take time to find my way there. It gave me the opportunity to think, and that was never good. Lynas died over and over again in my mind, driving me to the edge of impotent fury. My hands curled into fists, nails cutting into my palms. If only I’d been here.

The local thieves didn’t bother me this time. They could tell that I belonged here from my jaunty walk, the flash of a feral grin and the aura of imminent violence that said I’d as soon smash their head in as look at them. Of course, in these borrowed clothes I also didn’t look like I had two copper bits to my name either. Might have helped.

I was glad I didn’t have to risk using my magic on such lowlifes. I tried not to use magic to mess with people’s heads if I could avoid it – it was a sickening violation of privacy and it hadn’t been terribly difficult to swindle a living out in the hinterlands of the Free Towns, where people were more naive and trusted far more readily than properly civilized Setharii folk like myself. Unlike pyromancers, burning bright and burning out quickly, I was subtler and canny enough not to let the magic run riot through my body long enough to risk more changes, rationing it until needed instead of putting on flashy shows. A magus is too fragile a channel to let the sea of magic roar through unchecked for long, and the more you used it the more you wanted to; no, the more you needed to. Want was far too weak a word.

Affinity for one of the elements was by far the most common Gift, but I was different, classing myself as a right manipulative bastard, or a peoplemancer if I wanted to be polite about it. Most people had worse names for those with my rare sort of Gift: tyrant if they were being polite, mindfucker if not. The Arcanum kept an eye on all magi and made sure we didn’t abuse our powers too much, and they’d known I had the potential to enslave people to my will and become a true tyrant. They had always watched me with an extra level of vigilance, one hand on a knife ready to plunge into my back. Happy times.

As it turned out, Charra’s old premises were long-gone, burnt down and replaced by a creaking block of slum housing. A copper in a beggar’s bowl gained me the information that Charra was still very much alive, much to my relief. She had shifted her business all the way over to West Docklands, which was impressively upmarket for a brothel. The new Charra’s Place was as close to the luxury of the Crescent and the Old Town as such an establishment could get without the wardens and the Arcanum taking exception to such undesirables getting above their station.

It took a good half day to make my way west through the maze of narrow streets, and as I walked I gradually became aware that something was not right below the surface of the city. An atmosphere of fear and uncertainty pervaded the seemingly cheerful chats and greetings of friends and neighbours. It wasn’t what they said, it was what they didn’t. I witnessed an old woman ask how a carpenter’s sister was doing. He didn’t answer and just looked away, focusing on repairing a door. Her face paled and she didn’t enquire further. I eavesdropped on other conversations and asked people a few leading questions on my way, and it seemed a worrying number of people had gone missing over the last few months, especially those with a touch of magic in their blood. “The Skinner”, the same name daubed on the gatehouse wall, seemed to be on everybody’s lips; a deranged madman some said, while others called him a daemon from the Far Realms.

By the time I found the right area dusk had fallen and the great bell up in Old Town was tolling its last until dawn. A few travellers new to the city paused in the middle of the street to gawp up at the great houses and gothic spires as illusionary faerie flames flickered into life all along their walls and rooftops, painting them with hues of light that swirled through red, pink, green and blue at the artistic whims of the lords of the High Houses. It was beautiful, but I had seen it countless times and knew just how much gold the noble families wasted on maintaining such magical frivolities.

Charra’s new place of business was a large building of fine grey stone decorated with fluted columns and delicate ornamentation, all set within small but meticulously maintained gardens. Elunnai was almost full tonight, her tears diamond-bright and scattered across the sky. The silvery light lent an ethereal beauty to the garden as hundreds of delicate moonflowers rose from the earth, translucent buds blooming, petals glowing gently as they bathed in Elunnai’s radiance. It must have cost a fortune to build this small oasis of tranquility and for me it was far more magical than the illusionary artifice adorning the manses of the High Houses on the rock above.

Charra had gone up in the world.

Two bullish red-haired clansmen – twins, all looming muscle and whorling blue tattoos, short necks and bristling beards – stood flanking the main entrance. Their hairy arms crossed over leather vests as they watched my approach. I noted the wooden hilts of clubs peeking out from the square-sheared low hedges on either side of them. These two were as well-armed and armoured as the wardens would accept in the lower city. I could tell from a glance that they were seasoned warriors: the knife scars on the arms, the solid stance, the way their eyes sized me up. They had smashed more than a few heads in their time.

I wouldn’t have expected anything less from Charra; she had always boasted a good eye for talent. Hah, and if I knew Charra, then guarding this door wasn’t all the twins would be doing on a regular basis.

Neither of them looked impressed at the sight of me in my oversized patched clothing. I probably did look like some soft southern twat to them, more at home in the gutters than in a high class brothel. Still, I reckoned I knew just how to deal with Clansmen, being half of one myself.

Straightening up to try and look vaguely imposing, I sauntered over and stopped just out of arm’s reach, nodded to them. “How’s it goin’, pal? I’m here to see Charra.”

Both looked me up and down, well, mostly down. The one on the right sneered at me. “Oh aye?” he said, the scent of whisky on his breath. “And why would she want to see you then, wee man?”

The Clan tattoo running up the side of his neck identified him as hailing from one of the northeastern clans. I grinned up at him as the name came to me. “Have some respect, you little Clachan prick.”

He blinked, exchanged glances with his brother. That was the way to deal with clansmen – a bit of banter and a lot of front. I shook my head and tutted. “Why, I–”

His fist ploughed into my stomach, lifting me off my feet. Air whuffed from my mouth and I collapsed, shocked lungs refusing to suck in air, my belly a mass of pain like I’d been kicked by a horse. The bastards. They’d spent too long in Setharis, gone native; and as for me – I’d been too cocky.

Staggering over to the hedge, I doubled over and vomited all over the handle of his club, just to spite the prick.

“Ugh, you dirty wee bawbag!” he cried, hauling me round by the scruff of the neck. I gasped, struggling to speak as his other fist drew back to pound on my face, managing to force out a few words.

“The rabbits are fast here.”

His face screwed up in confusion. “Eh?”

“Purple snow?”

“What are–”

It was just enough to set his mind off-balance, enough confusion to make it easier to slip into his head. I wouldn’t get out of this in one piece without using a tiny bit of magic and I refused to allow the likes of them to get in my way. I opened my Gift, just a sliver. Skin contact made working magic so much safer and easier. I reached into his mind and rummaged his memories for the big fat bag of gold at the centre. It wasn’t difficult: a haze of alcohol-induced malleability overlaid his every thought.

Ah, there it was. Dirty bastard.

I made the hand clamped round the back of my neck spasm with pain like it had just been stabbed. He snatched his hand back, hissing. The iron band squeezing my chest eased off slightly. I clutched my throbbing stomach.

“I know your secrets, Nevin,” I sneered back at him, raising an eyebrow. “How was Fenella? Enjoy it, did you? Wet for you, was she?” I tutted again. “Wasn’t your brother here madly in love with her for years?”

Nevin’s face went pale. Both men’s eyes widened in horror. My arrow had struck home. Grant stared at him in disbelief. Which turned to rage.

“You lying cunt!” his twin snarled, launching himself at Nevin, meaty fist smashing into his brother’s face.

As the twins set to rolling about the ground beating the crap out of each other, I staggered over to the entrance and shouldered the heavy oaken door open. A tiny bell tinkled as I slipped inside and let it swing shut behind me.

Inside, the air in the reception hall was fragrant with exotic spices and expensive oils, the carpets and furnishings all in the best possible taste. I closed my eyes for a second and concentrated on blocking away the pain, telling my body that it belonged to somebody else. It receded to a dull ache.

A lady of sheets carrying a silver tray and cup sashayed down the hallway towards me, nipples almost visible beneath her silken halter, the slit on her long skirt revealing a glimpse of bronzed thigh. No toothless old whores with rotten breath here. And I was certainly no eunuch, that was entirely evident.

Her eyes took in my ill-fitting and now puke-stained clothes. Her brow creased.

I winked at her. “Ah, so good to be back!” I plucked at my baggy tunic. “Urgh, I really must arrange a better disguise next time. Is that wine, my sweet?” Not one to turn down free drink, and keen to wash the foul taste from my mouth, I snatched the cup from the tray and took a gulp before she could protest. It was far from my usual pig-swill. Not even a hint of vinegar. “Is your mistress at home this evening?”

She was having none of it. “Mistress Charra is indeed, m’lord, but she is otherwise occupied.”

The front door shuddered as something heavy slammed into it. Muffled cries of pain and cursing came from the other side. Those brothers were really going at it.

A weary sigh escaped my mouth. “Alas, work before pleasure then. I am here on Arcanum business.”

She stared at me sceptically for a moment before bobbing her head. “Yes, m’lord. I shall inform the management immediately.” She refused to meet my eyes as she backed down the hallway.

I stood, hands clasped behind my back, studying the paintings on the walls and the fresco on the ceiling until the sound of boots on stone gave cause to make me turn. A young woman of serious mien approached, tall and brown skinned with cropped black hair. She couldn’t have seen much more than eighteen summers, but those dark eyes held a composure far beyond her years that seemed oddly familiar. She wore a sombre outfit of black tunic and trousers with a thigh-length tailored coat over it, which on closer inspection appeared weighted in places. I had no problem imagining the knives secreted in there, or any illusions as to her competency with them.

This was Charra’s personal attendant most likely. She reminded me of her mistress in many ways, completely self-assured, her movement precise, smooth as a dancer. An edge of danger clung to her, and that made the woman far more appealing to me than any giggling lady of sheets with a fake smile. Never one to shy away from illicit pleasure, I let my eyes linger.

She took in my patched clothes, then bowed formally, her eyes never leaving mine. “Good evening, Master…?”

“Reklaw,” I said, with full-on pomp. “I am here to see the mistress of the house.” Faced with a member of the Arcanum, even the lowliest full magus, most people tended to react like they’d been dropped into a nest of vipers. Not this girl.

“I see,” she said. “The mistress of the house is not currently seeing visitors. If you would care to return whe–”

“Not a chance. She will want to see me.”

“You sheep-shagging craven little bitch!” a Clansman bellowed outside. Another heavy thump rattled the door.

The girl’s eyes were cold enough to kill. “If you would excuse me for one moment, Master Reklaw.”

She opened the front door and stepped out, sniffed the air. “Is that whisky I smell?” As it swung closed behind her the racket outside cut off mid-swear. I couldn’t hear the bollocking she gave them, but when she opened the door again Grant and Nevin stared at me with seething hatred, all torn clothes and bloody noses. She slammed the door in faces as bruised as their egos and favoured me with an unamused smile.

“Now, where were we? If you insist on forcing a meeting then I must warn you that she does not suffer fools and she has friends in high places.”

I smiled; Charra had suffered my particular style of foolishness for years. “As I said, she will want to see me.”

“On your head be it then.” She beckoned me down the reception hall, “This way please.”

We passed through a curtain into a long hallway with a dozen doors each side. Clearly there was a whole lot of fucking going on here and I pitied whoever had to launder all that linen. Halfway down, she pulled out an intricate black iron key and slotted it into the lock of a door identical to any other. A series of clicks and it swung open to reveal a stone staircase spiralling up, narrow enough that a few men could hold back a small army. I followed her in and pulled the door closed behind me, surprised at a weight more like iron than wood. Reinforced, by the feel of it. The entire building was a small but luxurious fortress.

We emerged from the stairs into a guard room where four men blocked the far door. Armed and ready, three had unsheathed swords, and the fourth held one of those new-fangled Esbanian crossbows aimed straight at my heart. I’d never seen one of the things before: like a normal bow but on its side with some sort of mechanical crank and trigger. It looked all wrong to me, but the things were said to be stupidly simple to use, not requiring the years of practice it took to become a competent bowman. I bet the Arcanum didn’t like that one bit. Now any disgruntled peasant could have the power to kill at a distance.

Weapons in the hands of the low-born didn’t sit well with the High Houses and it was borderline illegal for a Docklands household to be armed like this, unless the law had changed while I’d been away. Fat chance of that.

“Evening, gents,” I said.

At a nod from Herself, they swung the door open. The guard’s hard glares warned me to behave as I passed, stepping out of the smoky torchlight of the guard room into the warmth of a lavish suite more subtly lit by ornate candelabra and shutters on barred windows edged with the sunset. Thick rugs, soft underfoot, covered a dark hardwood floor, and on either side of an archway ahead, black marble columns soared to a vaulted ceiling painted with scenes of writhing naked bodies. Some of those positions… I was fairly sure that most people couldn’t bend like that. And why had somebody painted horses like… I tore my eyes away from the ceiling. Some things were better left a mystery.

The setup was classic Charra; it was all about the psychology of power. The self-proclaimed respectable classes of Setharis would be suckered in by the opulence only to be flustered by the depraved art. The seedy underbelly, meanwhile, would take the riches as a show of power, but the art as a sign that she was still one of them. She still knew what she was, or at least what she claimed to be – she was suspiciously deadly with fists and knifes, and over the years I’d never actually come across a single client who had enjoyed her services, but I wasn’t one to pry into a friend’s secrets. Whatever she really was, with her public reputation no amount of money would buy acceptance among the high-born and no point in pretending otherwise. But in her own way she was rubbing her success in their faces every time they stepped into her domain.

I liked her style. Liked to flatter myself that she’d learnt from the worst.

Voices emerged from a side room where a handful of men and women sat in rows at benches, quills scratching while a tutor inspected and corrected their letters and numbers. Charra had always helped people lift themselves out of the gutters to find other work if they wished, and before I fled the city she had started providing funds for several to start up their own businesses in exchange for a small cut of future profit. Judging from this new place that generosity had paid off handsomely.

The room beyond the archway was deep in shadow. I was led through to a plush ebony chair and small ornate table on which an oil lantern had been shuttered to cast its light in my eyes so that I couldn’t see much of anything. I felt the attendant’s hand on my shoulder, helpfully steering me down into the seat with a grip that told me standing wasn’t an option. A surprising strength too; I couldn’t help but wonder if she was mageborn.

While waiting I peered into the dark, just making out a lacquered wicker screen and alcoves lining either side of the room. My less orthodox senses filled in the gaps: the soft scuff of leather; the creak of floorboards; eddies and whirls of hot breath in cool air brushing my hair – guards in the alcoves. I drummed an uneven beat on the arm of the chair. Waited some more. Pondered asking for snacks.

Finally, a servant emerged from behind the screen and began folding it back. She wore a head-to-foot Ahramish dress, layers of fine black lace and thread of gold that left only ink-stained hands and kohl-lined eyes uncovered – the traditional dress worn by librarians of the Great Archive at Sumart if I wasn’t mistaken. If genuine, it was an impressive feat for Charra to have acquired the services of one of their ilk; they were said to be unwaveringly honest, intelligent, and better read than most magi who had lived twice as long.

My heart thudded like a drum, throat closing up as a woman with the dark skin tones of the Thousand Kingdoms came into view – Charra. She lounged on a plush chair with a silver goblet in her hand, swilling a fragrant, spiced red wine. She had put on a bit of weight over the years, acquired a shock of grey in her short spiked hair, and crow’s feet now clustered at the corners of her eyes, but she was still a fine-looking woman. Her smoky hazel eyes were dull and disinterested, bloodshot from wine and weariness. Her black tunic and trousers were a match to her attendant’s, but rumpled and unwashed. A cloud of grief surrounded her, causing my own heart to twinge in response. Oh Lynas…

The attendant cleared her throat behind me, hot breath caressing the back of my neck. “This is Master Reklaw.” I imagined her hand resting on the hilt of a dagger, ready to plunge it deep into my back.

Her mistress only glanced at me briefly, nodded and took a sip of wine, staining her lips purple. “You claim to be from the Arcanum, Master Reklaw. What do you want?”

I stroked my jaw. Sure, I’d acquired a mass of scars and got rid of that ridiculous pointy goatee that had been all the fashion back then, but still… I pulled a bent roll-up from my pocket, lit it from the lantern and clamped it between my lips. I took a deep draw and exhaled, smoke writhing in the lamplight as it drifted towards the hidden guards. “That bunch of whiny, self-important pricks? I suppose I can claim some past involvement, Cheriam.”

She jerked upright, shocked somebody had used her birth name, the one only a handful of people from the old days would know. It took her a moment. Then the goblet clanged to the floor and wine gurgled out in a spreading purple pool as she stared at me in shocked pleasure, then anger, that familiar expression seeming more like the old Charra I knew.

“Reklaw? You stinking bastard.” She rose and clapped her hands, “All of you, out!” She didn’t take her eyes off me as lantern shutters were opened and armed guards shuffled out. Her attendant and her knives remained in place behind me.

Charra stalked over and grabbed me by the collar, hauling me to my feet and into her arms, crushing herself to my chest. “I knew you couldn’t be dead, you slippery scoundrel.”

I couldn’t hide the joy welling up inside me. It was the happiest I’d been in years, even tainted as it was by recent events. We held each other for a long moment until she finally pulled away. Her gaze stroked my scars. “What happened to your face?”

I cleared my throat. “Cut it shaving.”

“Shaving?” She raised an eyebrow. “What with? A bear?” Suddenly fury flashed in her eyes. “Ten years! You could’ve at least sent a letter.” Her slap rattled teeth, snapped my head to one side, eye to eye with the attendant. The girl arched an eyebrow, a canny expression that seemed strangely familiar.

I looked from her to Charra, then back again. Then it dawned on me. She had Lynas’ eyes. It clicked in my mind and the mix of Lynas and Charra in their daughter’s face became heart wrenchingly obvious.

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “No! This is little Layla?” Suddenly I felt horrendously awkward for letting my eyes linger on her earlier.

Layla looked hopelessly confused, that icy control cracked and leaking.

“My darling,” Charra said. “Do you remember Uncle Walker?”

She frowned, absently reached over and tugged at my chin, then realized what she was doing and snatched her hand back, cheeks reddening. Seemed she remembered tugging on my beard when she was little.

Charra gave her a hug, “Give us some time alone please, my darling.”

“If you are sure…” Layla said, looking none too pleased. Charra squeezed her arm and shooed her away, but not before Layla gave me a meaningful look, promising knives in my eyeballs if I laid a hand on her mother.

Once we were alone Charra kicked me in the ankle, just hard enough to be annoying. “You grumpy old git. I haven’t laid eyes on your sorry hide ever since you came running up my door carrying that old box. I just thought you were in yet another spot of trouble and hadn’t expected you to flee the godsdamned city without even a goodbye. Why did you leave? A god died that night – I was worried sick something had got you too.”

I swallowed and decided the truth was better than lies. “I, uh, suspect that I might have had something to do with that. I made some very bad enemies that night. Sorry, I’d tell you more if I knew it myself. There is a hole in my memory.”

She stared at me, flat and sceptical.

“I made a deal with somebody incredibly dangerous, and most of what happened that night is locked away inside my head.”

She scrutinized every change in my face, the scars, lines and greying hair, and then frowned, my appearance not quite matching the age it should have shown in mundanes: one of the benefits of magic. “Very well, I have more than enough to worry about at the moment. You did a good job faking your death to get the Arcanum off your back. Everybody believed your charred corpse was found near Port Hellisen. Well, almost everybody; Lynas didn’t seem terribly upset about it, and knowing the special bond you two have… He is–” She grimaced “–was, a terrible liar. I assume you made him promise to keep me in the dark?”

“Sorry about that,” I said, raking a hand through my unruly hair. “They would never have stopped if they had any suspicion I still lived. That body belonged to an old farmer called Rob Tillane, dead of the bloody flux judging from the smell. I just covered his corpse in my blood and magic to fool the sniffers. The fire and, ah, a few convenient witnesses to my death disguised the rest.” I tapped my temple and grinned.

She shook her head, the ghost of a smile on her lips, “Always the conniving snake, and I am very glad you are. Where have you been holed all these years?”

“Where haven’t I been,” I said, sighing. “Traipsed through every town and village in Kaladon most likely, from Port Elsewere in the south west, through the Free Cities to the north and the Clanholds in the mountainous hinterlands beyond that. I never stayed long in one place. The Arcanum were not the only ones hunting me, and I couldn’t fool all of them.”

“That doesn’t sound like much of a life,” she said.

“It was an existence,” I replied, and it had been one that had kept them safe thanks to my deal. I hadn’t realized how lonely and pitiful it had been until I’d seen Charra once more. “What about you? Have you been well?”

She smiled briefly and waved a hand at the sumptuous surroundings. “It’s been a good life for the most part. Lynas and I got back together a handful of times, but that kind of relationship was not meant to be.” She coughed and cleared her throat, then took a deep shuddering breath and gazed longing at her spilt wine. “I assume you returned because you know what happened.”

“I’m going to burn the bastard,” I snarled.

She nodded, “I don’t know who or why or I’d have done it myself.”

“I can help with that,” I said tapping my head. “I have ways of finding out.”

“Good. You’ll be wanting to collect your old belongings before we get down to business.”

I swallowed, not exactly happy at the thought of being reunited with Dissever.

Fuck, this was going to hurt.