Authors: Kim Hunter
fourth guard added thoughtfully, The old maids of this castle are going to be bit upset about Jankin being hanged. The story is that Jankin serviced a good many spinsters and very satisfied they was too, he being so well-endowed. Therell be weeping and wailing in certain lonely quarters once the news of this gets around. There was another thing missing from his body, Soldier said. His penis. Ho! Some old witch has had that, cried the thin guard. Shell sell it on, once shes breathed a bit of life into it. Or, if shes very ugly, shell keep it for herself, said one of his friends. The guards all laughed uproariously and told Soldier he could go on his way. Spagg was less enthusiastic when presented with the large pair of hands. How am I goin to find room on my stall for Jankins great mitts? he asked, holding up the monstrous appendages. Youve chopped em. Look at the stumps! Bah! Theyre like two slabs of pale meat. And theres no character to em, he quite rightly pointed out. Theres no tattoos, no scars, no hard gristly bits or misshapen warts. The hands of a clerks got more interest in em than these. At least a clerks usually got a pen callus on the writing hand. These have got no blemishes at all. Why, theyre as soft and smooth as a babys bottom. Look at the perfect shape of the moons on the nails! The cuticles. Everything trimmed and neatly filed. Thems manicured fingernails. Jankin couldnt have done a hard days work in his life. From what I hear, said Soldier, he had no need to. You mean his bedroom antics? I suppose those widders and old maids paid him, did they? What a way to earn a living, eh? Plying your trade between white cotton sheets. I heard it was the silk ones that were his downfall. Spagg nodded, holding the pair of hands up to the light. Ah well, maybe if I distress em a bit, with a hammer and some chisels. Make em look as if theyve been through terrible times? Tricks of the trade, Soldier. Cant just give up on em, just cause they look brand new, can you? Well knock a bit of character into em. Soldier said, Isnt that cheating? Spagg looked up quickly with a frown on his forehead. When you buys things in a market, you take risks. You dont find honest men in places like this only in shops, what charge more money for the same goods. You buy cheap, you takes a risk is what I say. Spagg paid Soldier for his work and told him he could have the rest of the evening off. Gratefully, Soldier took the donkey to its stall and gave it some hay. I owe you my life, fellah, he said, patting its nose. You are the prince of donkeys. Now that he had some money in his purse, Soldier went looking for accommodation. However, at every boarding house or inn he received the same rejection. It seemed no one wanted a stranger to the city, a man who wore the iron collar, in their house. Some hardly opened the door before slamming it in his face, not even listening to what he had to say. Others threatened him. It seemed a hopeless task. In the end, as night was coming on, he went back to Spagg. The merchant was just in the process of gathering his hands from the stall: little ones, big ones, red ones, pale ones, black ones, copper ones, hands with twisted thumbs, hands with missing fingers, hands with no nails, hands with tattoos, skinless hands, hands with webbing between the joints, hands of every description, all bearing the obvious signs of preserving fluid. Spagg picked them up and placed them carefully, even lovingly, on top of each other, like stacking books, before wrapping them in sackcloth and placing them in leather saddlebags. Can I stay with you? pleaded Soldier. You must have a place for a bed where you live? If I stay on the streets Ill be robbed. There are footpads, cutthroats and cutpurses everywhere. Theyre more numerous than cockroaches once the sun goes down. Ive got to sleep some time and theyll be on me as soon as I close my eyes. Use that new warhammer to beat em off, replied the unmoved hand-seller, nodding at the weapon which was now stuck in Soldiers belt. The story of you sending that Hannack back to the hills is spreading over Zamerkand faster than flies can breed. The night-peoplell be scared stiff of you. Be reasonable. I cant fight in my sleep. Some rascal will tap me on the temple and Ill quit this world, reputation or no. Not my fault, not my business, replied Spagg, loading the last of his gear on a cart. All around him the other market traders were in the process of leaving the great square. Soon it would be empty of everyone except Soldier. Why dont you sleep on the guildhall steps, said his employer, then youll be bright and early for work tomorrow morning. I need to you help me put some dirt under Jankins fingernails, and chip and crack em a bit. The only thing theyve touched in the last few years is the breasts and fannies of the female gentry. Why wont you take me home with you? Because my lover wouldnt like it - we value our privacy. Soldier stared at the hand-of-glory merchant. He was a small, squat man. His torso had a shrivelled look to it, while his arms and legs were thin and gangly. His greying hair was stiff with dirt and looked as if it had been cut with a blunt instrument. His feet were large, his ears were large, his nose was large. His skin was pockmarked with the ravages of the pox and there was a horrid hairy mole on the point of his chin. In short, he was an ugly brute. You have a lover? said Soldier, and before he could help it he had added, She must be very unfussy. Spagg raised his eyebrows. Were not all as fond of peaches-and-cream as Jankin was, you know. Anyways, you can chunter on all night, you aint comin home with me. He started to walk towards the stall where the donkey was stabled and then turned and said in a generous tone, You could try a woman called Uthellen. Lives at number 133 West Gate Street. She sometimes takes in lodgers, even suspicious ones like you. Soldier saw he wasnt going to get anywhere with Spagg and left the square to seek this Uthellen womans house. Nightwatchmen came out of the recesses in the castle walls to light the faggots in their cages. Street people had already started fires on corners and in alleys, to keep themselves warm during the night. Even these low-life individuals stared suspiciously at the man wearing the iron collar, indicating with their eyes that he would be wise not to stop and try to share the comfort of their fires with them. As was usual, he came across one or two bodies on his search for the house. One was lying in an alley, its head beaten to a bloody pulp and looking like a watermelon which had been squashed by the wheels of a cart. The other was hacked into several pieces, the bits scattered over the road outside a tavern. The watch had obviously not yet found the remains of either of these ugly signs of violence. It reminded him that this was a city where death was cheap and very often nasty. His hand never left the warhammer. He found the weapon a great comfort when shadows flitted within alleys. Finally, in the light of the faggot torches, he found a house with the number 133 painted on it in crude figures. There had been no 133 West Gate Street, and Soldier had assumed that Spagg must have got the names mixed up. It was a green door in an alley so narrow he had to slip up it sideways to prevent grazing his shoulders. The alley snaked up through houses on a hill at the back of the city. There were no windows through which Soldier could peer and get some idea of the occupants, but it did not look a very salubrious set of residences. He simply had to knock on the door of 133 and hope to get a welcoming reception. The knocker on the thick wooden portal was a demons claw clutching an iron ball. It invited use. He listened at the door first and thought he could hear faint grunts, or perhaps moans and groans going on behind it. Maybe the lady was sick? Perhaps thats why she took in unsavoury lodgers, because being ill she could not work and needed the money desperately? At least someone was home. He knocked hard. Nothing. He knocked even harder. Still nothing. He knocked harder still. Nothing, nothing, nothing. He used the warhammer, thumping loudly enough on the wooden portal to awaken the dead. The door flew open and an enormous, sturdy woman filled the opening to the house. She was tucking a grimy blouse into the waistband of her even grimier skirt. Huge breasts weighed down the blouse front. Huge muscles bulged the blouse sleeves. Huge legs stood firm as tree trunks in the doorway. Soldier had obviously interrupted something, though his brain reeled drunkenly at the awful possibilities. WHAT? she roared. Soldier took a step backwards, to be out of reach of the stench of her foul breath. I Spagg told me that is, do you have a room for rent? The womans jowls were red with anger. Room? Theres only one room in this hovel, and thats got me in it and for a very short time a little friend. Theres no space left for a cockroach, let alone a grown man. She peered more closely at his neck. Youve got an iron collar. Get out of here, before I call the watch! But Spagg said . . . cried Soldier, desperately. I dont know any Spagg. The door was slammed shut. Soldier could hear bolts slamming into their sockets. That was that. Soldier walked back to West Gate Street, despair in his heart. Still he could not find 133. At that moment the raven landed on his shoulder, making him jump. Dont do that, he said. What do you want? Its not what I want its you who needs something. Ive been watching you. I heard what Spagg said. Youre barking at the wrong door, Soldier. Soldier was puzzled. What do you mean? Look down at your feet. Soldier did so and saw nothing but the cobbled street. I see stone, he said. And? Soldier used his powers of observation a little more. And iron grids, every hundred yards. Bravo! Precisely. The openings to the sewers below the city streets. Each of them are numbered. Dawn came up in Soldiers sluggish brain. Not a house number the number of a sewer? Bravo. Now, off you go. The one you want is by the south wall. The raven flew off, up towards the turrets and towers, with their flapping banners and flags. Soldier tramped along the street until he reached the south wall of the city. There he found the grid marked 133. He lifted it and climbed down the iron ladder, trying to ignore the stink of the air below. The first few yards were dark, but once he had reached the tunnel where the muck flowed in a sluggish stream down the centre, he noticed faint lights. There were people down either side of the river of sewage. Soldier stood on the narrow ledge and said, Uthellen? Is there a woman called Uthellen here? A woman with a young boy sitting in the light of a cheap tallow candle looked up quickly. There was fear in her face. When she saw she was being observed she looked down again, just as swiftly, and pretended to be doing something with the boys shoes taking them off - or putting them on. Are you Uthellen? called Soldier again. This time there was no sign that the woman had recognised the name. She continued fussing with the boys feet. Soldier climbed down on to the ledge and made his way towards her. Soldier decided that the woman would have been very attractive, if it were not for her rags and grime. She had a small, oval-shaped face set with deep, brown eyes. Her hair too was probably a chestnut colour under the dirt. The boy with her looked weak and sickly. His limbs were as thin and knobbly as sticks and his complexion was pale. There were dark rings around his eyes and the hair on his head was thin and patchy. Two eyes, bright as fiery coals, burned with intensity in his face. Was that with fever, or with some inner strength? Soldier made his way to the pair, over grumbling bodies, until he reached the womans side. She looked up. There was still dread in her eyes. Soldier said in a low voice, so that others could not hear, I mean no harm to you, woman. My name is Soldier. Spagg, the hand-seller, said you might find me somewhere to sleep. I actually asked him if there was someone who would rent me a room, but I see that like me, you have no dwelling. Oh, Spagg? There was some relief in her voice and the look of terror faded a little, though it did not vanish completely. Im - Im sorry. There is someone who would . . . but never mind that. You are a stranger to the city. I see that by your collar. So, they will not give you room to sleep? I have this space, she said, indicating the stone bank of the sewer. I rent it from the Lady of the Sewers, who is responsible to the Queens Chancellor for the good running of the citys sewers. Ah, so it doesnt come free? Nothing comes free in Guthrum, she said. You have been here a very short time if you havent learned that. The Chancellor has his finger in every pie. Soldier was surprised. Chancellors are usually rich men why would this Queens Chancellor bother with renting sewer space? Have you ever asked yourself how chancellors become so wealthy? Soldier thought about it and nodded. You have a point. In that case, may I share this spot with you? I have good coin to pay rent. At these words several people in the half-darkness around them shuffled as if paying attention. All I need is a place to sleep, he added. Nothing more, nothing less. If you and the boy could find it in your hearts to help a man with the iron collar of a stranger, I should be eternally grateful. She grimaced, ruefully. Of course you may share my space, but now you have told everyone you have money, one of us will have to remain awake at all times. If we all three fall asleep at once, theyll rob us blind wont you? The last two words were shouted for the benefit of the listeners. Grins and nods came from the beggars, thieves and vagabonds sharing the sewer. There were no protests. They knew what they were and what they knew what they would do given the chance. Im sorry, said Soldier. I have a lot to learn, obviously. You sleep first. Ill stay awake and count the stars. Stars? said the boy, opening his mouth for the first time and staring up at the curved black ceiling of the sewer. What stars? In here, replied the Soldier, smiling and tapping his head. The bright stars of the open fields and woodlands. He sighed. They are with me always, even in places like this.
Chapter Four
There was a part of the extensive city grounds which did not have the stink of dogs or the filth of the streets. Here there were pleasant bowers and alcoves, beautiful thickets of small-leafed lime trees and green mazes of myrtle and hibiscus hedges. Painted statues and ornamented seats were everywhere, while fountains served expansive camomile lawns and clusters of yew shrubs. Lakes full of exotic fish, bearing glittering jade lizards on their banks, were scattered around. Deer and other wildlife wandered between these drinking places, decorating the landscape with their animated forms. Everywhere one looked there were swathes of colour: the white sweep of a gathering of lilies, a flush of red roses or tight-bulbed tulips, a shady bank dusted with the hazy blue flax in bloom. These were the gardens on which two palaces stood: the Palace of Birds and the Palace of Wildflowers. Queen Vanda lived in the Palace of Birds. At first glance it might seem as if this buildings beautiful architecture had been fashioned from plaster bricks in the shape of birds. However, closer inspection would reveal that these were actual birds, frozen in a variety of actions - perched, flying, eating, alighting, swimming birds with beaks open, birds with beaks closed, birds with smooth feathers, birds with ruffled feathers. They were once warm, live creatures that had been turned to stone, then used in the making of arches, turrets, towers, pillars, window-frames, ledges, portals, and all the other necessary and decorative features which go into the making of a palace fit for a queen and empress. It was, however, a house of sadness. Queen Vanda, like her sister, Princess Layana, who lived in the nearby smaller Palace of Wildflowers, dwelt much of her time in a terrible twilight world on the borderlands of madness. Thus the walls of both palaces were padded with silk brocade stuffed with goosedown. It was said that ten thousand wild geese had died to provide the padding which helped to prevent either sister from braining herself on the stone walls of their respective homes. The parents of the sisters, the old queen and her consort, had died when the children were young. The royal offspring had been in the care of their nanny since birth, and she, poor soul, had crept unknown into senility at the time of the old queens death. No records had been kept. The queen had been uninterested in her daughters. She had consigned the girls to the nursery where they were cherished and kept from all society by their doting and jealous nanny. Since reason had left the old woman in whose care the royal children had been left, there was no discovering their exact ages. One day she said it was Vanda who was the oldest, the next Layana, then changed her mind the following morning. It was Humbold, then only a clerk in the civic library, who set about discovering which of the two children was the elder. His keen inquiry led him to the conclusion that it was Vanda who was five years of age and Layana who was four years and three months. Once Vanda became queen, at the age of twelve, she rewarded Humbold with several promotions for his research. There were times when the queen was quite lucid and rational, but there were also times when her reason flew out of her like a startled bird from its nest and the dark shadow of lunacy clouded her thinking and her actions. This morning was one of those days when her thoughts were clear and she called for her chancellor to attend her in her bedchamber. How is your majesty this morning? asked the chancellor, warily, on entering the queens boudoir. I trust you slept well? The queen was sitting up in bed, the satin sheets covering only her legs. She was robed in a pale peach silk gown which emphasised the thinness of her form beneath it. Her ribs showed through like a furrowed field. Her elbows were sharp points halfway down the mandarin sleeves. Her collarbones made silk arches around the neck of the robe. No, I had nightmares as usual. I dreamt I was being torn apart by witches and eaten alive. It was horrible. Each part of me was a conscious living creature with a mind of its own, so that when the witches ate my liver, my heart watched in great sorrow and agony, seeing its body-mate torn apart and devoured by these wretched hags ... As the queen spoke her expression changed. She began to look more and more haggard and distressed. Chancellor Humbold stopped the flow with a sharp, How terrible for you, your majesty ... Humbold was not much concerned by the queens grisly dreams, but for him to retain his position it was necessary that she be lucid for at least part of the time. If it ever emerged that she had lapsed into complete, irretrievable, howling madness, the queendom would collapse completely and he would be robbed of the power he now wielded. While she was seen as partially able, there would be no revolution. Rulers were entitled to run slightly mad in any case: they were products of inbreeding, even incest. Queendoms however, like chickens, required heads. Without a functioning queen even a cruel one chaos and disorder would prevail. Murder would be the order of the day and the streets would run with blood. Hated chancellors would be dragged from their beds and hung from tower flagpoles. Humbold was the true ruler of the queendom. There had once been an empire, but that had been lost by Queen Vandas mother, though the trappings were still in place the Imperial Guard and other such institutions. There was still great wealth in the queendom, from the imperial era, but once-conquered neighbouring countries no longer paid tribute to Guthrum. It was a static wealth. The empire had withered, but the city state of Zamerkand still flourished. There were old scores to settle however. Many of the tribes around and about saw themselves as victims of the old empire, and now that the mighty had fallen were eager to crush it completely. The cry of Barbarians at the gates was expected to be heard at any time, now and in the future. Only the mercenaries, the Carthagans, stood in the way of Guthrums utter destruction. A sacked and burning city, its population slaughtered to man, woman and child, was in the minds eye of every citizen. Guthrum was living on the edge of a precipice. Queen Vandas fortune paid for the foreign troops to guard Zamerkands walls, but the queens wealth was not bottomless and one day would run out. Then the Hannacks would come, and the clans of beast-people from the North the Horse-people and the Wild-dog-people and coast raiders would sweep in from the Cerulean Sea. Guthrum would be devoured by fire and sword and its people consigned to death or slavery. What are the duties of the day? asked the queen, getting out of her bed. There was a fountain in the middle of her room. She allowed her attendant maid-servants to strip her and wash her in its waters, oblivious of the presence of the chancellor, who it has to be said was slightly revolted by the sight of her gaunt, careworn body. Do we hold court? There are petitions for your majesty to hear. To save your majesty time I have weeded out the unnecessary ones ... She looked up as a maid-servant wrapped her wet body round with orange-coloured cotton towels. Surely I should hear them all? Surely I should be the one to decide whether or not they are necessary? Humbold smiled. Forgive me, your majesty. I have taken the liberty of whittling them down to fifty. There were originally seven-hundred-and-ten. Im sure your majesty would be too exhausted to hear such a number of suits. The queen raised her eyebrows as she was being dressed. That many? Youre quite right. Even fifty sounds a tiring number. You are forgiven for usurping my power, Humbold, this time. Next time, however, you must tell me beforehand how many there are and I shall decide whether you whittle them down to a manageable number. Your majesty is quite right. Most of the fifty supplicants were bearing false suits, all invented by Humbold himself. In this way he kept a buffer between the citizens and the queen. Four hundred of the original seven hundred and ten involved complaints against the chancellor himself. He could not have such things coming to the ear of the queen. Those not of his own making which he had allowed through the filter were minor quarrels between neighbours someones pig had eaten someones vegetable patch and nothing at all to do with the way Humbold ruled the castle city state. Has anything unusual happened recently? asked the queen. While I was asleep. While you were in the thrall of your ugly lunacy, thought Humbold, screaming fit to bring down the walls of the castle. No, not really . . . oh, yes, there was a stranger - he came to the city with one of our hunters. Apparently the hunter found him on a hill. The man was convinced he had been involved in a battle just prior to meeting the hunter. Indeed, he looked like a soldier, though his uniform was in rags and his sword sheath was empty of a weapon. Why do you mention this trivial account to me? Why? frowned the chancellor. I dont know. Theres something about the way this man was found or found himself - that is troublesome to me. Just a feeling, nothing more. The manner of his coming worries me. I sense more importance in it than just happenchance. I fear this stranger, who calls himself Soldier, may be bad for us. But Im not entirely sure. I feel it best to keep him under observation before executing him. The queen, now dressed in regal fashion, in great swathes of light cotton with silk trimmings, started. Is he out to destroy us, do you think? Humbold raised the palms of his hands. Its just a feeling, your majesty, and I am having the man closely watched. If he remains within these walls I intend to invoke an old law of Zamerkand. I found it the other day, in one of the books in your library. It states that a stranger requesting hospitality must be given such, but for one lunar month only, after which if he has not left the city the Lord of Thieftakers, our highest judge, may have him arrested and put to death. The queen said, Are you sure you didnt just write that law yourself? Humbold smiled. Your majesty jests. And you think this is necessary, to have the stranger put to death? Perhaps your feelings are mistaken? What if he is some kind of messiah, come to save us from destruction? Thats why I have allowed him to live for a while. If he is such then he will reveal himself before the month is out. However, if he has nothing to offer us, or is simply a lost stranger, then we can dispose of him. No, no, your majesty, if this man is any sort of threat to us I will have him executed after the full moon has passed. As you will, Chancellor Humbold; now what of the rest of the day? I am afraid, your majesty, that we have rebellious elements in our midst. Traitors? She breathed the word. A traitor. Fear not, your majesty. I have had the man concerned arrested. He was preaching sedition in the taverns of the city. This is one Frinstin, Keeper of the Towers ... Frinstin? He speaks against me? There are several witnesses. They shall be called at the trial. Vanda stared as if into a room of darkness. Trial? There will be no trial. Execute him. Humbold altered his facial muscles a little into something that might, in some quarters, be recognised as a smile. But, you may require proof, your majesty. I need no proof, Chancellor Humbold. Your word is good enough, is it not? You have heard the case against him? Indeed I have. Then cut off his head, today. A nod from the chancellor. And his successor? I leave that to you, Humbold. As you wish, your majesty. Later, the queen was in her throne room, ready to hear supplicants and make judgements. Humbold, as ever, was by her side, gently guiding her. He was subtle, had to be, for she was not an unintelligent person. Long hours of studying his queen had enabled Humbold to make just the right noises at the right times. He knew just when and where to intervene and when to stay silent. Sometimes he remained aloof even when he wished the judgement to go the other way, knowing that in this particular instance, on this particular subject, it was better to take a small defeat than risk losing the confidence of the queen. Two people entered the throne room and bowed very low before the monarch. She acknowledged their presence and waved them away as if she were wafting cool air on her hot brow. The two went off into one corner to speak quietly with each other. They were rich and powerful personages, these two. One was short and muscular, with a broad face and high forehead. Her name was Qintara and she was the Lady of the Ladders. The other was tall and thin, with a narrow nose, a small mouth and a generally pinched look about him. His eyes were piercing and glinted like flints. He surveyed the room as the other talked in a low voice. This was Maldrake, Lord of the Locks. Both Qintara and Maldrake belonged to Chancellor Humbold, of course. They were his creatures. There were many taxes on the citizens of Zamerkand, which kept its residents safe from raiders and other warring states, and gave them their secure trading canal to the sea. They paid dearly for their protection. There was a tax on steps and stairs, collected by the Lady of the Ladders. It was she who assessed how many steps went to a citizens room, or trading place, or house. If you lived above the stench of the dung-covered streets, in a high tower, then you had to be able to afford it. There was a tax on locks, collected by the Lord of the Locks. The larger and more complex the lock, the more a person had to protect, and therefore the more tax he could afford to pay. There were in turn, a Keeper of the Chimneys; the Lady of the Sewers; the Lady of the Doors; Keeper of all Gates; and so on. The same principles of tax applied to all: those who could afford conveniences could afford to pay tax. Controlling much of this wealth was the devious Humbold, who had over the years managed to fill most of the posts in the city with sycophants, and so took a percentage of all taxes paid to the queen. There were not many who resisted Humbold now. Frinstin had been one of them, but he was the least powerful, the least important of them all. Marshal Crushkite, Warlord of the Guthrum Army, was one who hated and opposed Chancellor Humbold whenever he got the chance. The standing army of Guthrum the Carthagan mercenaries aside - was not large, but it was well-armed and very loyal to its officers. Humbold had to fawn in front of its senior officers, especially Crushkite, and he loathed them all. The marshal strode into the throne room now, tall and aristocratic, a thoroughly military bearing, his head a shock of lion-mane hair, his expression disdainful, his manner arrogant. He crossed to the queen and gave her a sharp bow. The queen smiled. Crushkite, broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted and handsome in his fiftieth year, was one of her favourites.