Black Halo (3 page)

He left the coins and slipped out the door.

And she knew she had to be content to watch him go, this time, as all other times. She had to watch the man she knew the night before reduced to his indentation on her bed, his identity nothing more than a faint outline of sweat on sheets and shape on a cushion. The sheets would be washed, the cushion would be smoothed; Bralston the lover would die in a whisper of sheets.

Bralston the Librarian would do his duty, regardless.

‘Do you have to do that?’ the clerk asked.

Bralston allowed his gaze to linger on the small statuette for a moment. He always spared enough time for the bronze woman: her short-cropped, businesslike hair, her crook in one hand and sword in the other as she stood over a pack of cowering hounds. Just as he always spared the time to touch the corner of his eye in recognition as he passed the statue in the Venarium’s halls.

‘Do what?’ the Librarian replied, knowing full well the answer.

‘This is not a place of worship, you know,’ the clerk muttered, casting a sidelong scowl at his taller companion. ‘This is the Hall of the Venarium.’

‘And the Hall of the Venarium is a place of law,’ Bralston retorted, ‘and the law of Cier’Djaal states that all businesses must bear an icon of the Houndmistress, the Law-Bringer.’

‘That doesn’t mean you have to worship her as a god.’

‘A sign of respect is not worship.’

‘It borders dangerously close to idolatry,’ the clerk said, attempting to be as threatening as a squat man in ill-fitting robes could be. ‘And
that
certainly is.’

Technically, Bralston knew, it wasn’t so much against the law as it was simply psychotic in the eyes of the Venarium. What would be the point of worshipping an idol, after all? Idols were the hypocrisy of faith embodied, representing things so much more than mankind and contrarily hewn in the image of mankind. What was the point of it all?

Gods did not exist, in man’s image or no. Mankind existed. Mankind was the ultimate power in the world and the wizards were the ultimate power within mankind. These idols merely reinforced that fact.

Still
, the Librarian lamented silently as he surveyed the long hall,
one might credit idolatry with at least being more aesthetically pleasing
.

The bronze statuette was so small as to be lost amidst the dun-coloured stone walls and floors, unadorned by rugs, tapestries or any window greater than a slit the length of a man’s hand. It served as the only thing to make one realise they were in a place of learning and law, as opposed to a cell.

Still, he mused, there was a certain appeal to hearing one’s footsteps echo through the halls. Perhaps that was the architectural proof to the wizards’ denial of gods. Here, within the Venarium itself, in the halls where no prayers could be heard over the reverberating thunder of feet, mankind was proven the ultimate power.

‘The Lector has been expecting you,’ the clerk muttered as he slid open the door. ‘
For some time
,’ he hastily spat out, dissatisfied with his previous statement. ‘Do be quick.’

Bralston offered him the customary nod, then slipped into the office as the door closed soundlessly behind him.

Lector Annis, as much a man of law as any member of the Venarium, respected the need for humble surroundings. Despite being the head of the Librarians, his office was a small square with a chair, a large bookshelf, and a desk behind which the man was seated, his narrow shoulders bathed by the sunlight trickling in from the slits lining his walls.

Bralston could spare only enough attention to offer his superior the customary bow before something drew his attention. The addition of three extra chairs in the office was unusual. The admittance of three people, clearly not wizards themselves, was unheard of.

‘Librarian Bralston,’ Annis spoke up, his voice deeper than his slender frame would suggest, ‘we are thrilled you could attend.’

‘My duty is upheld, Lector,’ the man replied, stepping farther into the room and eyeing the new company, two men and one visibly shaken woman, curiously. ‘Forgive me, but I was told this was to be a meeting of the Librarians.’

‘Apologies, my good man.’ One of the men rose from his chair quicker than the Lector could speak. ‘The deception, purely unintentional, was only wrought by the faulty use of the plural form. For, as you can see, this is indeed a meeting.’ His lips split open to reveal half a row of yellow teeth. ‘And you are indeed a Librarian.’

Cragsman
.

The stench confirmed the man’s lineage long before the feigned eloquence and vast expanse of ruddy, tattoo-etched flesh did. Bralston’s gaze drifted past the walking ink stain before him to the companion still seated. His stern face and brown skin denoted him as Djaalman, though not nearly to the extent that the detestable scowl he cast toward Bralston did. The reason for the hostility became clear the moment the man began to finger the pendant of Zamanthras, the sea goddess, hanging around his neck.

‘Observant,’ the Lector replied, narrowing eyes as sharp as his tone upon the Cragsman. ‘However, Master Shunnuk, the clerk briefed you on the terms of address. Keep them in mind.’

‘Ah, but my enthusiasm bubbles over and stains the carpet of my most gracious host.’ The Cragsman placed his hands together and bowed low to the floor. ‘I offer a thousand apologies, sirs, as is the custom in your fair desert jewel of a city.’

Bralston frowned; the company of Anacha suddenly seemed a thousand times more pleasurable, the absence of her bed’s warmth leaving him chill despite the office’s stuffy confines.

‘As you can imagine, Librarian Bralston,’ Annis spoke up, reading his subordinate’s expression, ‘it was dire circumstance that drove these … gentlemen and their feminine companion to our door.’

The woman’s shudder was so pronounced that Bralston could feel her skin quake from where he stood. He cast an interested eye over his shoulder and frowned at the sight of something that had been beautiful long ago.

Her cheeks hung slack around her mouth, each one stained with a purple bruise where there should have been a vibrant glow. Her hair hung in limp, greasy strands over her downturned face. He caught only a glimpse of eyes that once were bright with something other than tears before she looked to her torn dress, tracing a finger down a vicious rent in the cloth.

‘Of course, of course,’ the Cragsman Shunnuk said. ‘Naturally, we came here with all the haste the meagre bodies our gods cursed us with could manage. This grand and harrowing tale the lass is about to tell you, I would be remiss if I did not forewarn, is not for the faint of heart. Grand wizards you might be, I have not yet known a man who could—’

‘If it is at all possible,’ Bralston interrupted, turning a sharp eye upon the Cragsman’s companion, ‘I would prefer to hear
him
tell it. Master …’

‘Massol,’ the Djaalman replied swiftly and without pretence. ‘And, if it is acceptable to you, I would prefer that you did not address me with such respect.’ His eyes narrowed, hand wrapping about the pendant. ‘I have no intention of returning the favour to the faithless.’

Bralston rolled his eyes. He, naturally, could not begrudge an unenlightened man his superstitions. After all, the only reason people called him faithless was the same reason they were stupid enough to believe in invisible sky-beings watching over them. Not being one to scold a dog for licking its own stones, Bralston merely inclined his head to the Djaalman.

‘Go on, then,’ he said.

‘We fished this woman out of the Buradan weeks ago,’ the sailor called Massol began without reluctance. ‘Found her bobbing in a ship made of blackwood.’

A shipwreck victim
, Bralston mused, but quickly discarded that thought.
No sensible man, surely, would seek the Venarium’s attention for such a triviality
.

‘Blackwood ships do not sail that far south.’ Massol’s eyes narrowed, as though reading the Librarian’s thoughts. ‘She claimed to have drifted out from places farther west, near the islands of Teji and Komga.’

‘Those islands are uninhabited,’ Bralston muttered to himself.

‘And her tale only gets more deranged from there,’ Massol replied. ‘Stories of lizardmen, purple women …’ He waved a hand. ‘Madness.’

‘Not that the thought of seeking them out didn’t cross our minds,’ Sunnuk interrupted with a lewd grin. ‘Purple women? The reasonable gentleman, being of curious mind and healthy appetite, would be hard-pressed not to wonder if they are purple all over or—’

‘I believe it is time to hear from the actual witness.’ Lector Annis cut the man off, waving his hand. He shifted his seat, turning a scrutinising gaze upon the woman. ‘Repeat your story for the benefit of Librarian Bralston.’

Her sole reply was to bend her neck even lower, turning her face even more toward the floor. She folded over herself, arms sliding together, knees drawing up to her chest, as though she sought to continue collapsing inward until there was nothing left but an empty chair.

Bralston felt his frown grow into a vast trench across his face. He had seen these women who had sought to become nothing, seen them when they were mere girls. There were always new ones coming and going in Anacha’s place of employ, young women whose parents found no other way out of the debt they had incurred, girls snatched from the desert and clad in silk that made their skin itch. Often, he saw them being escorted to their new rooms to waiting clients, the lanterns low as to hide the tears on their faces.

Often, he had wondered if Anacha had cried them when she was so young. Always, he wondered if she still did.

And this woman had no tears left. Wherever she had come from bore the stains of her tears, bled out from her body. Violently, he concluded, if the bruises on her face were any indication. He slid down to one knee before her, as he might a puppy, and strained to look into her face, to convey to her that all would be well, that the places of law were havens safe from violence and from barbarism, that she would have all the time she needed to find her tears again.

Lector Annis did not share the same sentiment.

‘
Please
,’ he uttered, his voice carrying with an echo usually reserved for invocations. He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers to suggest that he did not make requests.

‘I was …’ she squeaked at first through a voice that crawled timidly from her throat. ‘I was a merchant. A spice merchant from Muraska, coming to Cier’Djaal. We were passing through the Buradan two months ago.’

‘This is where she begins to get interesting,’ the Cragsman said, his grin growing.

‘Silence, please,’ Bralston snapped.

‘We were … we were attacked,’ she continued, her breath growing short. ‘Black boats swept over the sea, rowed by purple women clad in black armour. They boarded, drew swords, killed the men, killed everyone but me.’ Her stare was distant as her mind drifted back over the sea. ‘We were … I was taken with the cargo.

‘There was an island. I don’t remember where. There were scaly green men unloading the boats while the purple women whipped them. Those that fell dead and bloodied, they were … they were fed to …’

Her face began to twitch, the agony and fear straining to escape through a face that had hardened to them. Bralston saw her hands shake, fingers dig into her ripped skirt as though she sought to dig into herself and vanish from the narrowed gazes locked upon her.

She’s terrified
, the Librarian thought,
clearly. Do something. Postpone this inquisition. You’re sworn to uphold the law, not be a callous and cruel piece of—

‘The important part, please,’ Lector Annis muttered, his breath laced with impatient heat.

‘I was taken to the back of a cavern,’ the woman continued, visibly trying to harden herself to both the memory and the Lector. ‘There were two other women there. One was … tired. I couldn’t stop crying, but she never even looked up. We were both taken to a bed where a man came out, tall and purple, wearing a crown of thorns upon his head with red stones affixed to it. He laid me down … I … He did …’

Her eyes began to quiver, the pain finally too much to conceal. Despite the Lector’s deliberately loud and exasperated sigh, she chewed her lower lip until blood began to form behind her teeth. Having failed to fold in on herself, having failed to dig into herself, she began to tremble herself to pieces.

Bralston lowered himself, staring into her eyes as much as he could. He raised a hand, but thought better of it, not daring to touch such a fragile creature for fear she might break. Instead, he spoke softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

As he had spoken to Anacha, when she had trembled under his grasp, when she had shed tears into his lap.

‘Tell us only what we need,’ he said gently. ‘Leave the pain behind for now. We don’t need it. What we need’ – he leaned closer to her, his voice going lower – ‘is to stop this man.’

The woman looked up at him and he saw the tears. In other circumstances, he might have offered a smile, an embrace for her. For now, he returned her resolute nod with one of his own.

‘When the other woman wouldn’t scream anymore,’ the female continued, ‘when she wouldn’t cry, the man burned her.’ She winced. ‘Alive.’ She paused to wipe away tears. ‘I’d seen magic before, seen wizards use it. But they always were weak afterward, drained. This man …’