The city gates would not open until dawn. Not for him, at least. Unless he had urgent news for the mursants, he would not be allowed in.
Ebernathy was not interested in coming up with a long story to trick the guards, nor did he feel like explaining why he looked as if though a wolfbear had ravaged him. He made his way to the eastern wall where the shacks and tents had sprouted like fungus. The settlement was alive with light and music, though it was surely past midnight.
The village of outsiders had a guard of its own, to Ebernathy's surprise. They were too busy beating a man to death to pay him any mind. The city guard did not deign to bother the outsiders. And why would they? They didn't bother those within. Most of the people who did end up here, Ebernathy assumed.
He slipped through him and was greeted by dozens of men, women, and children, all looking to sell him something or rummage through his pockets. A man selling food offered him a fat roasted rat on a stick; Ebernathy could see the cook burned the maggots, hoping the fires would hide the truth that the rat had begun to rot before he cooked it. A woman thrust a jug of liquid in his face. It smelled odd and unpleasant; Ebernathy did not care to know what was in it. He shoved the merchants away. A gaunt little boy with dirty brown hair tried to steal one of his boots out from under him; he was the most determined of all, gripping his leg and trying to make him fall. "Bleed it," he muttered, annoyed. He stopped and slipped the torn leather boot from his foot. The boy tried to climb him like a squirrel trying to get a nut. Ebernathy threw his hand back and launched it away toward the cookfires and clattering pots. "Go get it," Ebernathy encouraged. The boy glared at him before running toward where the boot landed. "Be sure to soften it with a boil before you eat it." He quipped loudly.
Where he headed, the music got louder. There was a large tent, the smell of sweet illecks so poignant it stung. Inside were whores, piles of naked flesh, legs, and arms locked in pleasure. The pander stumbled into Ebernathy, drunk and well-spiced. Despite the cold, he was drenched in sweat. He began to mumble in Ebernathy's ear.
"You care to join?" The pander drooled as he clutched onto Ebernathy's shoulders to keep himself from falling. "Care to join?" he repeated. "Give me all your coppers. Silver, too. Give it to me."
Ebernathy stuck his head in the tent. He inspected the necks and the waists of those who partook. Some of them had the darkened veins on them, black bolts upon pallid skin. If that wasn't enough evidence to confirm his suspicion, he saw one of the men laughing and crying, naked in a corner. Nothing but nonsense escaped his lips as he tore at his hair and struck the ground with his fists. The skin below his hips looked frostbitten, though Ebernathy knew well it wasn't the cold that was killing him. He grimaced at the mad man writhe in the dust. They are all ill, he mused silently, so they do not care.
"A high price," said Ebernathy, putting his palm to the pander's face and shoving him away. The pander fell on his bottom and looked up, confused. "A high price," Ebernathy repeated carefully, "to catch a whiff of the putrid rose."
The pander only laughed. "Sit and watch then. Rub your belly. Can't catch it that way, yes?" Ebernathy did not deign to respond. "Give alms then," the pander begged, "alms for the sick and suffering!" As he walked away, he saw the pander crawl back into the tent, coughing and drooling. As he crawled back in, two others carried a corpse out. A haggard mother—a woman who looked nothing more than skin and bones—sat with her three children, not having the strength to quiet her the squalling babe in her arms. A barefoot priest of Carlaneus stood on a tree stump, pointing and yelling about the stars. The tent townsmen prostrated below him, weeping into the dirt.
Deep in our broken hearts, we truly despise this realm. Ebernathy had heard the mistress say many things in her midnight homilies. At this moment, these words rang in his head louder than the music. Was he reborn with a heart just as broken? No, and perhaps he never had one.
The path between the tents and hovels ended at the eastern wall. Four men guarded a siege tunnel that would take him inside Mayse. They were not doing their duty when they saw Ebernathy; they were gambling with cup and dice.
One of them rose suddenly, knocking his stool back. His black hair was divided by a long red scar on his pale scalp. He wore a leather jerkin over his muscled chest. "What bleedin' trick is this, Melks?" He took the cup of dice and threw it in a rusty brazier.
"That's me dice, Urrus!" shrieked the man called Melks. He tried to retrieve his property from the brazier but only recoiled when he burned his hand on the hot metal bars.
Another guard, a Sarbesian man with skin as dark as ebony, scratched his chin, fascinated by his companion. He wrapped himself with furs and blankets. "'Lot of value in those dice, is there?" he mused with suspicion in his voice.
"Gifts from me grandfather, they are. Me bloody grandfather was a lucky man," Melks explained, his words coming so quick it was hard to understand him. "Lucky man, lucky dice, yes? Me luck comes from him." If that was a joke, his fellows did not realize it.
The fourth guard, a yellow-haired man with an accent that marked him as a western Virteran, shook his head, smiling darkly. "I don't follow, Barasa," he said to the dark-skinned man, leaning back in his chair, "How does a man with so much luck end up in a cesspit like this?" He swept his hand widely, drawing attention to the magnificent tent town before him.
Barasa smiled darkly as well now. "Maybe he is not lucky at all, Zorrino."
The scarred man kicked Melks toward the brazier. "Well? Get the damn dice," he demanded.
"Come now, Urrus," said Melks with careful tones to the scarred man, his eyes searching for a clear path to make his escape. "Be calm." When Melks tried to flee, Zorrino the Virteran wrestled him to the ground. Smirking, the scarred man freed his a woodman's axe from his belt. Ebernathy could see that the stone dice had fallen through the coals. Barasa saw them, too. He reached under the brazier with his war knife and slid them out from under the brazier.
"Oh, god in the stars," Melks cried. His wild eyes locked on Ebernathy. "You!" Melks shouted. "Help me! They're going to bloody kill me!"
"Stay out of this, arsehole," Urrus warned Ebernathy.
Ebernathy raised his hands casually in surrender. "Cheating is a dangerous game in itself, my friend," he said to the gambler, shrugging.
Melks sighed in resignation. Barasa examined one of the dice and nodded his head. "This one has two fours and no three. Never seen that before on a die. He turned to and jerked his head at Ebernathy, grinning, "have you, stranger?"
Ebernathy played along. He shook his head. "A clever trick nonetheless," he admitted, "I never would have noticed."
"Very clever," hissed Zorrino, "We knew we shouldn't have trusted you." He poked the top of Melks head hard with a finger. "That little head of yours is full of secrets, isn't it?" He licked his teeth and gave Urrus a look. "Let's look inside, yes?" Urrus sent the axe head crashing into Melks's skull.
Barasa pocketed the dice and turned to Ebernathy. He chortled. "Looking for your boot, stranger?"
Ebernathy looked at his muddy toes. "I want in," he muttered, "into Mayse."
"What are you willing to give?"
"I've got nothing."
"Shame."
"I need to get in."
"Wait until morning and go to the gate."
"I'd rather not be seen."
"I'd rather have you shut up or pay the toll," snarled Barasa. "There are a few other tunnels hidden along the walls. Bugger off and look for them."
Both of their patience was wearing thin. Surely with the strength bestowed upon him by the gift, he could kill these men without much trouble. That would stir up a mess, to be sure. Instead, he tried to appeal to Barasa. The mistress had followers amongst the common people. The poorer, the more likely …
Ebernathy got down on his knees. With his finger, he drew the Waif's sigil. Six stars in total, four making the corners of a square, one in the center, the last outside and below.
The guards grew silent, staring at the image in the dirt.
"What of it?" Barasa asked flatly.
"Ast Rayhanei, ast nahyl," Ebenathy said. Ancient words they were; they were of the nepher tongue, taught to him by Rayhanei. Kneel before Rayhanei, or kneel before nothing. He felt he needed to convince them more. With his nails, he clawed at his wrist. Within the flesh, his blood was red, but as it exited the body, it turned a greenish-black.
The guards echoed the chant softly as they watched Ebernathy's dark blood fill the grooves in the stars. "Make haste, brother," said Zorrino, bowing slightly and pointing to the tunnel with an open hand. "Had we known, we would not have delayed you."
"Sing the praises of the dark mistress," muttered Urrus.
"What is our brother's name?" Barasa asked him solemnly.
"This one's name is Elbert Ebernathy," he responded.
"Brother Elbert," said Barasa reverently, "there is a tavern called the Headless Knight. We are told that an arakoll, one of our sacred warriors, is within."
"I will go to him, Brother Barasa," Ebernathy assured, respectfully.
Brother Zorrino spoke up. "Allow me to take you there," he said, behaving less like a lout and more like a humbled priest. Zorrino moved the planks and soiled canvas off the entrance. "Take care not to touch the walls much." Taking a lantern from a tent, Zorrino led the way for Ebernathy.
The tunnel was not wide enough for two men to pass through abreast; Ebernathy had to keep his head low, the space between the ceiling and floor about five feet. They took a right turn, and at the end of the path, he could see the faint light of candles in a room.
They exited the tunnel and into a sepulcher; someone had carefully mined through the wall of the tomb. Candles of red wax guided them. Some had melted over the twin tombs themselves, some in recesses cut into the white stone.
"Up through here," whispered Zorrino as if not to wake the dead. Ebernathy followed him up a flight of steps.
At the top, there was a wooden door, elaborately carved and depicting the scenes of slaughter. Zorrino knocked on it. Nothing happened. After half a minute, Zorrino tried again. This time someone heard him. On the other side, keys jingled, and the door opened. Short, half-blind, and hairy was the doorman. He was a stoop-backed man, and his walk, an awkward gait on twisted feet. The doorman mumbled something courteously as he moved out of the way, waiting for the pair to pass him so he could shut the door. His duty complete, the doorman slithered under a pile of winnowing sheets that lay under the eaves of the mausoleum.
Outside the Headless Knight, Zorrino bowed. "Gazagangar, the arakoll, is the man with the red cape," the brother informed him. "The thorns keep you, Brother Elbert," he said before taking his leave.
The inside of the tavern was subdued and peaceful. Three men had fallen asleep at one table, ale dripping from their soaked tunics as they snored loudly. A group of minstrels had fallen asleep, clutching their instruments.
The arakoll sat at the bench, talking with a hooded man sitting across from him. Lazatine was the hooded man's name, Ebernathy knew; he had informed him about the esper-bearers being in Ralmes. Lazatine wore a framed lenses, their material that of dark, smoke-colored crystals cut thin. His skin was as pale as milk, but his lips were a lurid crimson. Around his waxen body, he wore a deep purple robe that fell just above his ankles, trimmed with black. Seeing how the arakoll glowered at him, Ebernathy knew they were discussing Ralmes.
"You," spat Gazagangar sharply at Ebernathy, "you are the one who failed at Ralmes." the arakoll was bald, his face broad with a large nose and pair of lips. Muscled like a mountain, he was; his face was like a crag.
"We heard the last of Farrok's vassals were there as well," said Lazatine, his voice as soft and sweet as a singer's. "The Dreaded Dawn, Pyran and Ferangis, the princess of the grove."
Before Ebernathy could defend himself, the arakoll spoke again. "You underestimated them, I am told," the big man rebuked. "Did you deem pitchforks and torches sufficient in dealing with nepheri?"
The hooded man tittered, an annoyingly joyful noise.
Ebernathy took a seat on the bench next to Gazagangar. "I knew little of these dogs of Farrok," he conceded. "I did not know those two that accompanied them to be nepheri."
Lazatine sniffed. "Nevertheless, you did not think to inform us of such strangers?"
Ebernathy only shrugged.
Gazagangar grunted in irritation. "Well, those dogs have fled," he said to Ebernathy. "You lost the esper-bearers."
"And not for the first time," quipped Lazatine with a mocking grin.
Ebernathy's face twisted in anger. "I'll find them again."
"You will not," said the arakoll curtly. "We shall."
Lazatine produced a black diamond on a leather cord, a white light burning from within. "Lady Lombrea did well, stealing this from the nepheri." He giggled. "She seeks to become our sister." He sighed pleasurably. "Another seeks shelter within her dark wings. Though I believe she only wishes to see her husband again."
"Weak and pathetic," said Gazagangar. He said the words with disgust, lashing them out of his mouth like pungent poison. "I do not trust her. She had been long friends with the princess after she saved her people. Is this is how the Lady of Ralmes repays her?"
"Such is the way of humans," said Lazatine, resting his head on his hands, "you were about to say something like that, weren't you, Gaza?"
The arakoll snorted in agreement. "Thus, we have shed such a skin. We are of sacred flesh now, humbled by a greater shadow. We are no longer monsters, but scions of truth and honor."
Ebernathy could never tolerate sanctimony; he looked at the arakoll contemptuously. He remembered how he drank the poor man's blood and feasted on him as his child daughter watched. He gave a bark of derisive laughter. "We are monsters," he corrected, "you're a fool if you think otherwise. Our gifts changed nothing about us."
A simple truth, Ebernathy thought his words were. The arakoll was not pleased with his honesty, however. Ebernathy felt Gaza's fingers squeeze the back of his skull.
"Monsters, you say?" inquired the arakoll, giving Ebernathy a yank. His face transformed: his teeth grew longer and sharp as knives, and his eyes blackened all around. The stubs of horns began to sprout from the top of his head. "you take us, and yourself, mind you, as mere monsters?"
"Prickly fellow, aren't you?" Ebernathy said.
Gaza slammed his head against the table. Ebernathy heard a crack in the wood. The sound of the impact woke the drunk men and half the minstrels. The arakoll scrubbed his face against the table as if to wipe up his own dark blood with his cheek.
Sideways, Ebernathy looked up at Lazatine. "I think I've upset him," uttered Ebernathy drily.
Lazatine guffawed. Gaza, not finding the comment amusing, lifted Ebernathy's head and slammed it again.
"A jester," growled Gaza, "a jester as well as an incompetent bastard." The arakoll slammed Ebernathy's head again. The table seemed to falter. "Laugh, jester. Go on. Tell more japes."
Lazatine lifted a pale, long-nailed hand. "You've broken his mouth, Gaza," he said. "Perhaps it is time to stop." Lazatine lowered his head. "And you're frightening the other guests."
Gaza looked around and spat out a thick glob of phlegm. "What harm can they fucking do?" He bellowed, watching the spectators turn away from him.
"With their words." Irritation had eased into Lazatine's tones. "There is a reason why we speak during such dark hours. There is a reason why we are careful about our sacred flesh. Until Rayhanei determines the time to be fit, we shall not reveal ourselves in such ways." His smile was gone. "Now, release Brother Elbert," he instructed slowly, "or I will eat your eyes and tongue."
The arakoll relented. Without saying a word, Gaza turned and took his leave. Well met, Gaza, Ebernathy wanted to say but didn't, you thick-skulled bastard.
Ebernathy thanked Lazatine, though it was only more of a groan through his shattered face.
Lazatine nodded; he let a kindly smile pass his bright red lips. The hooded man got off the bench and tossed Ebernathy a small sack. It was full of silver dents.
"Your clothes are torn and bloody," remarked Lazatine. He gazed at the white light in the black diamond. "The arakoll was not clear. We will retrieve the one with the mark of Vysse." He looked at Ebernathy. "You must retrieve the one with the mark of Lynesse. Some believe they are traveling separately after your attempt on them."
"Fair enough." Ebernathy's mouth slowly began to heal. He raised his hand, bidding Lazatine wait. "Is there news about the girl? Surely, you won't leave me …" Ebernathy gripped his jaw. "… with nothing. I didn't come all this way for nothing."
Lazatine fingered his lips, pensive. "Ah," uttered Lazatine. He felt the need to pause before saying anything, much to Ebernathy's annoyance.
"Yes?" Ebernathy pressed. "I'm listening."
"A ship full of Virteran nobles arrived at a port city near Greater Vior. A big ship, one followed by smaller ones." Again, the pale man paused.
Ebernathy exhaled loudly. Does he mean to waste my time with riddles? "A big ship," repeated Ebernathy, "with nobles from Virtera. Is that it?"
The slight smile on Lazatine's face indicated that he was aware that he was an ass. "These nobles," he began slowly, "one of them was Sir Gema Snowvale." Lazatine stroked his chin. " Perhaps sir is the wrong title. Lady sounds more like it. Yes, Lady Gema Snowvale has come to take her niece home." Lazatine reached over and patted Ebernathy on the head like a dog; he drew back when Ebernathy looked ready to bite him. "Best fetch her before her aunt does, brother. Last I heard, they were riding to Winecastle up north. Perhaps they are still there." Abruptly, Lazatine turned away and took his leave.
Winecastle, mused Ebernathy silently. It has been ten years since he last set foot in that city. A jaunt back home beckons.
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