The Wraeththu Chronicles (103 page)

before we go to sleep, special customers sometimes stay all night. I lay awake for a few minutes, listening. The sound did not come again. It had sounded like an animal in pain; hair-raising. One single, desperate wail, cut off. The darkness around me seemed very thick, almost breathing. Outside, it was no longer raining, but I could hear loud dripping sounds in the yard. Whatever water fell there must be black, or red.

It was colder the next day. Winter is approaching fast. Soon, I hope, the cheerless appearance of Fallsend shall be covered with a cosmetic blanket of snow and ice. It had taken me a week to get round to writing again; I'd been rather preoccupied.

,i When I first woke up, I'd forgotten about the eerie howl in the night. I took my breakfast into Lolotea's room and we started some idle conversation about going into the town later on.

"By Aghama, but it's cold!" Lolotea said. "It's enough to freeze the howl in a dog's throat!" That reminded me.

"That reminds me, Teah," I said. "Last night, I was woken up by the most godawful noise. Is the place haunted or something? Did you hear it?"

"What kind of noise?" he asked, somewhat too warily, I thought.

"Well, it was rather like the complaint you might make if you'd discovered someone had just cut your throat. You know, kind of spooky, and, well, despairing."

Lolotea laughed. "How melodramatic! Can't say I heard it and no, the place isn't haunted. Must have been a dream."

"I'm sure it wasn't."

Lolotea shrugged. I felt he was hiding something.

Strangely enough, nobody else appeared to have heard it either.

"Probably just a cat in the yard." Ezhno said. "Why let it bother you?"

But, by this time, my senses were alerted and I wouldn't let it rest. I'd not lived this long in the wilds, in war-torn cities and wastelands not to recognize a harish scream when I heard one. I don't like to be in a situation where things are kept hidden from me. It's dangerous. Because of that, it was no coincidence that my feet led me in the direction of those shuttered rooms I'd seen above the kitchens. Piristil is a confusing place to explore. I kept finding myself in dead ends off corridors that led nowhere. Retracing my steps several times, I eventually emerged into a passage that had barred windows on the righthand side, looking out over the yard. This was more like it. Several of doors I tried were locked. I turned a corner to the left. Here, the passage was darker. I came across another door, almost by accident, in the shadows. I reached for the handle, turned it. It was unlocked. Just as I was about to push it open, a voice shouted, "Hey!" and a heavy hand landed on my shoulder. Ducking, I pulled away. Behind me, a tall and impressively muscled har seemed to fill the passageway.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded, in a manner that was unmistakably hostile.

"I live here," I said, suitably affronted.

"Not in this wing you don't. Now get out!"

"Why? What's going on in here?" I did not expect enlightenment and was not disappointed.

The har waved an enormous fist in my face, quite menacingly. "Out!" he growled.

I stood my ground for a moment, before walking back the way I'd come. This branch of investigation was obviously proving fruitless.

I went looking for Astarth. He was in the kitchens, menu in hand, supervising the dinner arrangements.

"I've just been accosted!" I said. He raised an eyebrow and politely listened to my outraged explanation; I know how to act when I need to.

"I'm sorry that happened, Calanthe," he said, "but I should have warned you. Don't wander about up there."

"Why not?"

"That's Jafit's business."

"Oh, a house secret!" I cried, as if delighted. "How marvelous!"

"Don't go meddling," Astarth said. "Jafit will not be pleased."

What was behind the locked doors? I did not sense danger, not exactly. It was just another flavor of the house; Piristil of soot and perfume and forlorn, leftover food. The corridors were cold here. Someone howling in the night. A sound like an animal, becoming clearer in my mind all the time. It was not despair; it was anger. I would find out why eventually.

Kruin was my second customer, and one destined to become a regular. The first time he set foot in my room, I could tell that half of him hates coming to this place. He was uneasy, giving off whiffs of profound guilt and self-loathing. I wondered what he wanted of me. I think I warmed to him because he looks Varrish; the same ropy, muscled look, tawny hair, restlessness. "I am Natawni," he told me. The name was familiar; a Jaddayoth tribe.

"You'll wear a hole in my carpet," I said. He ceased striding up and down.

"I have to explain before we ... well, in my tribe, some aspects of aruna are forbidden to us."

"The delights of pelcia and chaitra? Don't worry. They are forbidden to just about every tribe."

He shook his head in irritation. "No."

"Then please explain."

"It is because of our god," he said hesitantly. "The Skylording. Like us, he is the two in one; bisexual. His priests, the Skyles speak with Him often and He has decreed that for the warriors of the tribe, there should be a special code. Our affinity with each principle, either male or female, must change with the seasons. Thus, in spring and summer, we are female, and on the cusp of the changing season, the procreation of harlings takes place as our sexuality shifts toward the male. For the autumn and winter, we are masculine. It is the curse of the warrior caste! We must not deviate from our decreed affinity lest we harm the blood of our children. The other hara of the tribe respect this code; they would never transgress it. Why should they? It is not their problem. It is early winter here. I am in the masculine phase. I desire warmth. I desire . . . submission ..."

"You desire to be soume," I finished for him.

He smiled timidly. "Of course, you find nothing unusual in that. Don't mock me, Calanthe! The code of my tribe runs very deep within me. By this transgression, I taint my love of the Skylording. I risk the lives of future harlings."

I doubt it, I thought, but kept it quiet. "You must be very weakwilled, Kruin," I said. "I've seen you here often."

He bristled visibly. "I'm a long way from home. I have no friends in Fallsend. I do not have to justify myself to you!"

"No, of course not." I shoved a drink in his hand. "Here. How come you're in Fallsend anyway?" I sat him on my bed and began to unlace his jacket. The workmanship was exceedingly fine, the leather soft as living skin.

"Trade," he said. "I come from Orligia, a town in southern Natawni. Once a year, we bring leatherwork to the market in Fallsend. That way, we pick up trade that might otherwise be missed if we operated only in Jaddayoth. The Emunah export to Fallsend, but of course, we would lose a lot of profit using them as brokers."

"How many of you are there?"

"Four. The others don't know I come here. They think I visit a har in some corner of the town, but they don't suspect it might be a kanene. If they did, they'd draw their own conclusions, of course."

It was clear why Jafit had sent Kruin to me, for he wasn't seeking the ultimate in pain and repletion, but merely aruna in its simplest and most pleasing form. I took delight in his lean, hard body, which is how I prefer them. Lolotea and Astarth were sleek, it is true, but they had a certain softness about them, which came from their easy existence. Kruin had warm skin. His limbs were supple and our melding was harmonious. His tribe are also called the People of the Bones. He wore thorns of bone in his ears. I learned he was anxious to return home before the snows became too deep. "Jaddayoth can be a harsh place in winter," he said. Before he left me that night, he gave me one of his earrings, placing it in my ear himself. Half-way through the night, it woke me up because it had happily burrowed itself into the side of my neck. That was the first time blood stained my bedsheets; hopefully the last!

We leave debts in every town. We are notorious. Our lives have become a sort of daring, a desire to tempt Fate. Perhaps we feel immortal. The Unneah are Jar behind us now; we had little in common with them. Hara are looking for us, some to settle scores, some to ask for our services. We have a lot of money because of that. Zack grows more beautiful every day. He blooms like a strong, dark-petalled flower on a grave; what sustains him, sleekens him, is probably corrupt. I am half afraid of him. He is too wild, too reckless, too ephemeral. Flowers only bloom for a short time, don't they? It is night-time and this city is damp. Yellow lights flicker; but don't dispel the shadows. There are noises in every alley. We are armed with knives and guns; we are sleek. There is a red light above the door to a bar, lending an alien cast to those that stand beneath it. They part to let us pass within. The place is packed with Hara, the air dense with smoke. Much noise; music. Zack sits down at a table and begins to clean his nails with the point of a knife. I go to the bar. Someone speaks to me there. They tell me something important. I give Zack a beer and tell him we have enemies in this place. He shrugs and smiles. We drink. We talk of where we shall go next. Zack's teeth are very white and feral in the livid light. Someone comes to our table. Zack doesn 't stop smiling, although we alert each other with our eyes. There is a conversation and, during this conversation, I pull out a gun. There is a shot, the ripping of flesh and bone, a red spray. Those seated behind us make noises of disgust and annoyance, as the body falls across their table; glasses, liquor flying all over the place. Everyone is looking at us, some smiling, some shocked and, inevitably, some angry. People have died before in this bar. What I've done is not that unusual but Zack still thinks we should leave. I agree. There are too many of the dead Har's friends here. We walk to the door and, once outside, begin to run. We run through the wet, dark streets. Zack is laughing out loud. We become aware of footsteps behind us, running, echoing. The city seems empty. A car prowls by emptily; black, silent and shining. We do not know this place, but we are not afraid. We run. And. . . . They corner us at the end of a dismal, filthy alley. There are trashcans, boxes everywhere; a dead dog with an open mouth. Zack turns

panting. A distant light reflects off the blade of his raised knife. The wall before us is high, but it is our only way out. Zack puts the knife between his teeth. "On my shoulders!" he mumbles, past the blade. "Hurry!" I tuck my gun into my belt and scramble up his body. His muscles are trembling. "Hurry, for fuck's sake, Cal! They're nearly here!"

"OK!" My hands curl over the top of the wall. It is wet and slimy. I don't feel strong enough to pull myself up, as if all my strength is draining out of my feet. Should we stay and fight? We will die, almost certainly, but can we escape? Is there enough time, is there?

"Cal, for God's sake!" Zack is angry. He pushes me up and I lie on my belly on the wall. There is a clatter. My gun drops down on the other side.

"Oh, fuck it!"

"Cal!" Zack's voice is low. I look up the alley we have just come down. A gang of hara is approaching. They are now only feet away from us. They havestopped running. Their breath is steaming. They are so silent. Then one of them begins to move.

Zack turns his face up to me. "Pull me up!" he says and reaches toward me. There is no time. I have no weapon. There is not enough time. "Cal!" One by one, behind him, the predators begin to move. Some of them are smiling. They look so furtive. "Pull me up! For fuck's sake, Cal, pull me up! What's wrong with you?!" There is disbelief in Zack's voice, a certain crack, a certain realization that I cannot, will not help him. "Cal!"

I stand on the wall. It is just seconds, but seconds that pass like hours. Everything is so slow. I am turning. Below me, on the other side of the wall, is safety and another alley. Just seconds. I am turning, so slowly, steam-light, neon, damp, viscous walls. A distant shout. I am turning. Noises below me are the howls of the pack. "Cal!"

At last, desperation. He is afraid. I love you, Zack. I pull myself up, to jump.

"You fucking bastard! Cal!"

He can't believe I'm turning away. But then, he does believe. I feel something hit my arm. A brick. A dead dog. A curse. Who knows? I have heard many curses. I land on the other side of the wall, closing my ears to the sounds; the sickening, dull sounds of flesh under attack. I land on feet and hands and my arm buckles. I look. I am wet and warm. It is blood; Zack's knife in my arm, to the hilt. With a sad, desperate cry, I wrench it from the flesh. I can feel nothing. I stumble, I start to run. I keep on running. We thought we were immortal. Now we are both dead. . .

Jafit sent for me the next day. "Kruin speaks well of you," he said, sitting behind his desk, looking authoritative.

"Perhaps I've found my vocation then."

Jafit smiled thinly. "Sit down, Calanthe," he said. I did so. He leaned forward over his desk. "Now, Astarth tells me you've been asking one or two awkward questions, nosing around in places where you shouldn't be."

"Well, I... er ..." I raised my hands in vexation, pulled an apologetic face.

"Hmph. Quite the curious cat, aren't you!"

The fateful proverb paraded before my mind's eye. "Mysteries intrigue me, perhaps. But if you want to rap my knuckles, Jafit, please go ahead."

"Does that mean you won't try to find out what's up there now?"