Tales from the vulgar unicorn- Thieves World 02 (11 page)

As the caravan-master swigged his mug of blue John, an acolyte emerged from the main doorway of the temple. She waved her censer three times and chanted an evening prayer to the disinterested street before retreating back inside. The tavern's doorway brightened as the tapster stepped out carrying a lantern.

'Move, buddy, these're for customers,' he said to the classically handsome young man sitting on the other bench. The youth stood but did not leave. The tapster tugged the bench a foot into the doorway, stepped onto it, and hung the lantern from a hook beneath the tavern's sign. The angle of the lantern limned in shadow a rampant unicorn, its penis engorged and as large as the horn on its head. Instead of returning to the bench on which he had been sitting, the young man sat down beside Samlor. 'Not much to look at, is it?' he said to the Cirdonian, nodding towards the temple.

'Nor popular, it seems,' Samlor agreed. He eyed the local man carefully, wondering how much information he could get from him. 'Nobody's gone in there for an hour.'

'Not surprising,' the other man said with a nod. 'They come mostly after dark, you know. And you wouldn't be able to see them from here anyway.'

'No?' said Samlor, sipping a little more of his clabbered milk. 'There's a back entrance?'

'Not just that,' said the local man. 'There's a network of tunnels beneath the whole area. They - the worshippers - enter from inns or shops or tenements from blocks away. In Sanctuary, those who come to Heqt come secretly.'

Samlor's left hand toyed with his religious medallion. 'I'd heard that before,'

he said, 'and I don't figure it. Heqt brings the Spring rains ... she's the genetrix, not only in Cirdon but everywhere she's worshipped at all - except Sanctuary. What happened here?'

'You're devout, I suppose?' asked the younger man, eyeing the disk with the face of Heqt.

'Devout, devout,' said Samlor with a grimace. 'I run caravans, I'm not a priest. Sure, maybe I spill a little drink to Heqt at meals ... without her, there'd be no world but desert, and I see enough desert already.'

The stranger's skin was so pale that it looked yellow now that most of the light was from the lamp above. 'Well, they say there was a shrine to Dyareela here before Alar tore it down to build his temple. There wouldn't be anything left, of course, except perhaps , the tunnels, and they may have been old when the city was built ! on top of them. Have you heard there's supposed to be a demon kept in the lower crypts?'

Samlor nodded curtly. 'I heard that.'

'A hairy, long-tailed, fang-snapping demon,' said the younger man with a bright smile. 'Pretty much of a joke nowadays, of course. People don't really believe in that sort of thing. Still, the first priest of Heqt here disappeared. ... And last year Alciros Foin went into the temple with ten hired bravos to find his wife. Nobody saw the bullies again, but Foin was out on the street the next morning. He was alive, even though every inch of skin had been flayed off him.'

Samlor finished his mug of blue John. 'Men could have done that,' he said.

'Would you prefer to meet men like that rather than ... a demon?' asked the local, smiling. The two men stared in silence at the temple. 'Do you want a drink?' Samlor asked abruptly.

'Not I,' said the other. 'You say that fellow was looking for his wife?' the Cirdonian pressed, his eyes on the shadow-hidden temple and not on his companion.

'That's right. Women often go through the tunnels, they say. Fertility rites. Some say the priests themselves have more to do with any increase in conceptions than the rites do - but what man can say what women are about?'

'And the demon?'

'Aiding the conceptions?' said the local. Samlor had kept his face turned from the other so that he would not have to see his smile, but the smile freighted the words themselves stickily. 'Perhaps, but some people will say anything. That would be a night for the ... suppliant, wouldn't it?'

Samlor turned and smiled back, baring his teeth like a cat eyeing a throat vein.

'Quite a night indeed,' he said. 'Are there any places known to have entrances to - that?' He gestured across the dark street. 'Or is it just rumour? Perhaps this inn itself?'

'There's a hostel west of here a furlong,' said the youth. 'Near the Beef Market

- the Man in Motley. They say there's a network beneath like worm tunnels, not really connected to each other. A man could enter one and walk for days without ever seeing another soul.'

Samlor shrugged. He stood and whistled for attention, then tossed his empty mug to the tapster behind the bar. 'Just curiosity,' he said to his companion. 'I've never been in Sanctuary before.' Samlor stepped into the street, over a drain which held something long dead. When he glanced back, he saw the local man still seated empty-handed on the bench. In profile against the light, his face had the perfection of an ancient cameo.

Samlor wore boots and he was long familiar with dark nights and bad footing, so he did not bother to hire a linkman. When he passed a detachment of the Watch, the Imperial officer in command stared at the dagger the Cirdonian now carried bare in his hand. Still, Samlor looked to be no more than he was, a sturdy man who would rather warn off robbers than kill them, but who was willing and able to do either. I'll have to buy another boot knife, Samlor thought; but for the time he'd make do, make do...

The Man in Motley was a floor lower than the four-storey tenements around it. The ground level was well lighted. Across the street behind a row of palings, a slave gang worked under lamps scraping dung from the cobbles of the Beef Market. Tomorrow their load would be dried in the sun for fuel. The public room of the inn was occupied by a score of men, mostly drovers in leather and homespun. A barmaid in her fifties was serving a corner booth. As Samlor entered, the host thrust through the hangings behind the bar with a cask on his shoulder. Samlor had sheathed his knife. He nodded to the brawny innkeeper and ducked beneath the bar himself. 'Hey!' cried the host.

'It's all right,' Samlor muttered. He slipped behind the hangings. A stone staircase, lighted halfway by an oil lamp, led down into the cellars. Samlor followed it, taking the lamp with him. The floor beneath the public room was of dirt. A large trap, now closed and bolted, gave access to deliveries from the street fronting the inn. The walls were lined with racked bottles, small casks, and great forty-gallon fooders set on end. One of the fooders was of wood so time-blackened as to look charred. Samlor rapped it with his knife hilt, then compared the sound to the duller note of the tun beside it. The stairs creaked as the host descended. He held a bung-starter in one heavy fist. 'Didn't they tell you to go by the side?' he rasped. 'D'ye think I want the name of running a devil's brothel?' He took another step. 'By Ils and his sisters, you'll remember the next time!'

Samlor's fingers moved on his knife hilt. He still held the point away from the innkeeper. 'We don't have a quarrel,' he said.

'Let's leave it at that.'

The host spat as he reached the bottom of the stairs. ' Sure, I know you hot pants folderols. Well, when I'm done with you, you take my greetings to your pandering psalm-singers and tell them there'll be no more customers through here!'

'The priests share their privileges for a price?' Samlor said in sudden enlightenment. 'But I don't come for sex, friend.'

Whatever the tavern-keeper thought he understood, it frightened him as sight of the dagger had not. He paused with the bung-starter half raised. First he swallowed. Then, with a guttural sound of pure terror he flung the mallet into the shadows and fled back up the stairs. Samlor frowned, shrugged, and turned again to the fooder.

There was a catch disguised as a knot, obvious enough if one knew something of the sort had to be there. Pressed, the side of the cask swung out to reveal a dry, dark tunnel sloping gently downward. Samlor's tongue touched his lips. It was, after all, what he had been looking for. He picked up the lamp, now burned well down. He stepped into the tunnel, closing the door behind him. The passage twisted but did not branch. It was carven through dense, yellow clay, shored at intervals with timbers too blackened for Samlor to identify the wood. There were tiny skitterings which seemed to come from just beyond the light. Samlor walked slowly enough not to lose the lampflame, steadily enough not to lose his nerve. Despite the disgrace of his vocation, Samlor was a noble of Cirdon; and there was no one else in his family to whom he could entrust this responsibility.

There was a sound behind him. Without turning, Samlor lashed out with a boot. His hobnails ground into something warm and squealing where his eyes saw nothing at all. He paused for a moment to finger his medallion of Heqt, then continued. The skittering preceded him at a greater distance. When the tunnel entered a shelf of rock it broadened suddenly into a low ceilinged, circular room. Samlor paused. He held his lamp out at arm's length and a little back of his line of sight so that the glare would not blind him. The room was huge and empty, pierced by a score of doorways. Each but the one at which Samlor stood and one other was closed by an iron grate. Samlor touched but did not draw his double-edged dagger. 'I'll play your silly game,' he whispered. Taking short steps, he walked around the circumference of the room and out the other open door. Another empty passage stretched beyond it. Licking his lips again, Samlor followed the new tunnel. The double clang of gratings behind him was not really unexpected. Samlor waited, poised behind his knife point, but no one came down the stone boring from either direction. No one and no thing. Samlor resumed walking, the tunnel curving and perhaps descending slightly with each step. The stone was beginning to vibrate, a tremor that was too faint to be music. The passage broadened again. This time the room so formed was not empty. Samlor spun to face what first seemed a man standing beside the doorway. The figure's only movement was the flicker of the lampflame over its metallic lustre. The Cirdonian moved closer and prodded the empty torso. It was a racked suit of mail, topped by a slot-fronted helmet.

Samlor scratched at a link of the armour, urged by a suspicion that he did not consciously credit even as he attempted to prove it. The tightly-woven rings appeared to be of verdigrised copper, but the edge of Samlor's knife could not even mar the apparent corrosion. 'Blood and balls,' the caravan-master swore under his breath. He was touching one of the two famed suits of armour forged by the sorcerer Hast-ra-kodi in the fire of a burning diamond. Forged with the help of two demons, legend had it; and if that was open to doubt by a modern rationalist, there could be no doubt at all that the indestructible armour had clothed heroes for three of the five ages of the world.

Then, twelve hundred years ago, the twin brothers Harash and Hakkad had donned the mail and marched against the wizard-prince Sterl. A storm overtook the expedition in the mountains; and in the clear light of dawn, all had disappeared

- armour, brothers, and the three thousand men of their armament. Some said the earth had gaped; others, that everything had been swallowed by the still-wider jaws of airy monsters whose teeth flashed in the lightning and whose backs arched high as the thunderheads. Whatever the cause, the armour had vanished in that night. The reappearance of one of the suits in this underground room gave Samlor his first tangible proof of the power that slunk through the skittering passages.

From the opening across the room came the sound of metal scraping stone, scraping and jingling. Samlor backed against the wall, sucking his cheeks hollow.

Into the chamber of living rock stepped the other suit of Hast-ra-kodi's armour. This one fitted snugly about a man whom it utterly covered, creating a figure which had nothing human in it but its shape. The unknown metal glowed green, and the sword the figure bore free in one gauntleted hand blazed like a green torch.

'Do you come to worship Dyareela?' the figure asked in a voice rusty with disuse.

Samlor set his lamp carefully on the flooring and sidled a pace away from it. 'I worship Heqt,' he said, fingering his medallion with his left hand. 'And some others, perhaps. But not Dyareela.'

The figure laughed as it took a step forwards. 'I worshipped Heqt, too. I was her priest - until I came down into the tunnels to purge them of the evil they held.' The tittering laughter ricocheted about the stone walls like the sound caged weasels make. 'Dyareela put a penance on me in return for my life, my life, my life ... I wear this armour. That will be your penance too, Cirdonian: put on the other suit.'

'Let me pass, priest,' Samlor said. His hands were trembling. He clutched them together on his bosom. His fighting knife was sheathed.

'No priest,' the figure rasped, advancing.

'Man! Let me pass!'

'No man, not man,' said the thing, its blade rising and a flame that dimmed the oil lamp. 'They say you keep your knife sharp, suppliant - but did gods forge it? Can it shear the mesh of Hast-ra-kodi?'

Samlor palmed the bodkin-pointed push dagger from his wrist sheath and lunged, his left foot thrusting against the wall of the chamber. Armour or no armour, the priest was not a man of war. Samlor's left hand blocked the sword arm while his right slammed the edgeless dagger into the figure's chest. The bodkin slipped through the rings like thread through a needle's eye. The figure's mailed fist caught the Cirdonian and tore the skin over his cheek. Samlor had already twisted his steel clear. He punched it home again through armour, ribs, and the spongy lungs within.

The figure staggered back. The sword clanged to the stone flooring. 'What-?' it began. Something slopped and gurgled within the indestructible helmet. The dagger hilt was a dark tumour against the glowing mail. The figure groped vainly at the knob hilt with both hands. 'What are you?' it asked in a whisper. 'You're not a man, not...' Muscles and sinews loosened as the brain controlling them starved for lack of oxygen. One knee buckled and the figure sprawled headlong on the stone. The green glow seeped out of it like blood from a rag, staining the flooring and dripping through it in turn.