Splintered Suns Page 14

  The air was still resonating with the after-vibrancy of that immense single chime.

  “What about yourself?” said Pyke. “Will you be shifting right along with us?”

  “Again, the lack of shoulders denies me the ease of non-verbal communication,” RK1 said. “Will I be transposed into the next simulation?—uncertain. And the forms that we may take are equally unknowable, which reveals yet another mystery—are new roles assigned at random, Captain Pyke, or are they bestowed according to some kind of calculated plan?”

  Suddenly the focus of attention, Pyke adopted a sharply sardonic smile. “A great question—I’ve no idea what the answer is!”

  “Exactly—unknowable, unanswerable. Shall we continue?”

  Everyone nodded.

  “Good. This is the last move in the sequence,” the drone RK1 said. “When I say ‘move,’ each of you will turn your game piece a further quarter-turn to the right so that it is facing you—understood?”

  Pyke, now impatient, muttered his agreement.

  “Move!”

  All four of them reached out to the pieces on the boards and turned them.

  For a moment there was nothing, a hollow stillness devoid of any sound. But only for a moment. Pyke drew breath to speak but before he could he heard something—a faint tinging like the sound a flipped coin makes while in the air. As Pyke listened, the quiet chiming grew in volume, its quality deepening and widening, its plangent loudness climbing, its sonorous quality building, the sheer penetrating force of its reverberance making the pieces rattle on the boards. The drone was saying something, Vrass, too, but the overwhelming blast of resonance was obliterating all sounds.

  The others had clamped their hands over their ears but Pyke snarled, made himself get up from his seat, striving to ignore the way the air in his chest was thrumming as he lurched towards the door. His legs gave way and he sprawled on the floor. Laying his face down on the dusty floorboards was like baring his cheek to buzzing sandpaper.

  The awful vibrations took his breath, took his sight … and dissolved him.

  When he came round there was a sharp throbbing pain at the back of his skull, and for an instant he didn’t know who or where he was.

  “Ah, good, he’s back among the living,” said a gruff voice as hands lifted him into a sitting position.

  “I’m … what …?” he tried to say.

  “Scruffy pair of roughs knocked you down and started dragging you off into the alley over there—but we scared ’em off good and proper, didn’t we, Kiv?”

  “Yarp, proper, too.”

  Carefully, wincingly, he opened his eyes and saw a busy narrow street, except that all the people and their stalls and barrows were slightly blurred. A burly, bearded man was crouched beside him and his companion stood behind him holding a cudgel balanced on one shoulder.

  “I’m Jenek,” said the bearded man. “You caught a nasty crack on the head there—do you know what your name is?”

  He started to speak, then halted—his name, where he was, what he was doing, it all seemed to be missing; no, not missing but avoiding his mental grasp, as if separated by a barrier. For a moment or two he strove to remember and then, like the popping of a balloon, there it was.

  “Pazzyk,” he gasped. “I’m Bregan Pazzyk … and this is …”

  It all came back swiftly. He was Bregan Pazzyk, freelance antiquities broker, this narrow street was round the corner from Haxy Nightmarket, a minor location in the city known as Granah the Great, capital of the glorious Granavian Empire, ruled over by His Imperial Majesty Bachulal III, may his grandeur remain unsurpassed!

  “Yes, Mr. Pazzyk, you’re in the picturesque slums of Darvanu District,” Jenek intoned wryly. As Pazzyk carefully got to his feet, he went on: “After a nasty knock like that you should rest yourself.”

  “I wish I could, Master Jenek,” he said, dusting himself off. “But I have a job to do which will not wait, so my own discomforts will have to take second …”

  He paused, realising that something was missing from his shoulder and across his chest, but before panic could get a grip Jenek brought a brown leather object into view—Pazzyk’s satchel. Smiling with relief, Pazzyk accepted it and slipped it over his head, grimacing as he inadvertently brushed against the lump on the back of his head.

  “Well, you’ll know best about your own business, I suppose,” said Jenek. “You should keep your wits about you, though—those two louts are still out there.”

  “Thank you for your concern—oh, would you know what time it is?”

  Jenek frowned, glanced at his friend, Kiv, who snorted loudly. “Heard the hawkletter tower chime twice a small while ago—not heard the half-hour bells yet, it seeming.”

  “That’s good enough for me,” Pazzyk said. “I can still reach my destination if I hasten. Gentlemen, my deepest thanks—without your help I might have ended up face down in the Worroth. May Tulamis bring fortune to you both.”

  Jenek raised his hand. “May Shamaya watch over you, friend Pazzyk, and your head!”

  Their farewells were brief, and, as his benefactors returned to their nearby carpentry yard, Pazzyk resumed his route, round the corner and through the wide canopied entrance to Haxy Nightmarket.

  The Nightmarket was so-called because of the swathes of cloth that hung across its main thoroughfare, Haxy Way, obstructing what little sunlight slipped down between the tenements. Once, the stall and barrow-owners had put up long shades and lengths of sailcloth to protect their goods and their customers from the noxious eliminations which slum residents cast out from high windows. Then some began hanging up coloured sheets rather than heavy sailcloth, or patterned banners, with small lamps above casting light down through them in a very pleasing manner. Now, the wealthier proprietors paid for soil collectors to forestall any more odorous surprises, and cleverly designed self-dousing lamps to provide a constellation of glows shining down through a low sky of multi-coloured gauzy drapes and hangings. It was familiar and mysterious, all at once.

  Pazzyk sidled and wove through the busy, chattering people, buyers, viewers, visitors, delivery girls and boys, itinerant trinket traffickers and unremarkable looking cutpurses. All the pre-eminent peoples of the Granavian Empire were on show—short, gaunt Gadromis from the northern forests, brawny Shylan miners from the eastern mountains and the proud Barlig, horse-riders from the southern plains. And the Granavians, skilled in commerce and war, which nearly always overlapped. His ears were assailed by a non-stop rippling babble, shot through with the music of whistles, mandolas and tambors. Stall vendors tried to tempt him with food, hats, the latest Zetachian carbines, and captivating scents from far-off Kaurien, but he ducked them all, holding firmly to his course.

  Haxy Way began in Darvanu District, cut across Silverqueen Parade and continued on through Artisans Ward. The Nightmarket took on a more refined air here (or, more accurately, a less grimy miasma), and there were even regular sightings of Shamayan and Ujinian initiates. Orisons were being chanted in Qalival Square as he negotiated a path around the crowd. The square was dominated by a group of four huge statues, each representing one of the empire’s main peoples. Pazzyk remembered having passed this way many times but this time, as he laid eyes on the statues, it was as if he were seeing them for the first time. He slowed and stared, fixated by the towering figures, as if there was something vitally important about them, something that threatened to break through to his thoughts … and the feeling faded away as he resumed walking, hurrying off to leave the square behind.

  He emerged from the Nightmarket on Dragoon’s Row. Across the moderately busy street and rightwards a dozen paces or so were the offices of Relgin & Foach where several chattels auctions were due to take place, as they always did on the tenth of the month. Pazzyk was no stranger to the pillared entryway of Relgin & Foach, having been a semi-regular attendee of their auctions in recent years. He had intended to duck this month’s listing due to lack of funds but yesterday a messenger arrived from Till
yfray & Sons, a nearby notary, with a letter and a small yet weighty packet. The letter was from Tillyfray the Elder himself in which he stated that he was acting on behalf of a client of high status who wished to remain anonymous. Tillyfray had been engaged to obtain the clearout rights for a specific lock-booth which was coming up for auction very shortly. Thus Tillyfray was hiring Pazzyk to attend Relgin & Foach, bid for and win the auction for Lock-Booth R-29A, then return with the certificate and the booth key. The small, solid packet contained thirteen golden crowns, twelve to cover the bid (such auctions seldom rose to more than five or six crowns), and one to pay for Pazzyk’s services for the day. And, since his personal finances had sunk to one silver and a fistful of coppers, he was content to take the job.

  The entrance to Relgin & Foach was flanked by obsidiate pillars topped with statuettes of a bull and a falcon. Beyond a pair of creaking doors, Pazzyk strode along the hall and up the stairs at the end, a route he knew well. There were eight rooms on the first floor and, as usual, the chattels auction was taking place in one of the smaller ones. Gently patting the still sore lump on his head, Pazzyk went inside and took a seat over by the wall, affording him a decent view of the room and the auctioneer’s lectern.

  There were another seven bidders present, three whose solitary locations marked them out as freelance brokers like himself (with faces he recognised from previous gatherings), and a familiar pair of headscarfed old ladies. Misilda and Lemore were a couple of widows who cropped up at chattel selloffs now and then for the enjoyment of participation, despite seldom winning any bids. The remaining two were strikingly unalike; one was dressed in plain, formal dark greens, had the hard look of an upper-class functionary, a steward perhaps, and sat ramrod-straight in his chair; the other sat next to him, leaning forward, elbows on knees, garbed in outdoor working clothes and a cap. Heavy-set and surly, his entire demeanour said “hired thug.” In his thoughts, Pazzyk immediately dubbed them the Chamberlain and the Brute.

  The auctioneer, a grey-haired, cadaverous fellow, stepped smartly up to the lectern and the proceedings got under way.

  Granah the Great was probably the largest city in the entire western domains, and was certainly the city from which the most armies had set out on campaigns (not to mention the port of Pheshorn on the nearby banks of the Worroth, from which the Granavian navy had frequently set sail). During several centuries of exploration and expansion, many soldiers and sailors had rented storage from several companies with the intention of safeguarding belongings and keepsakes while away on duty. Lockboxes and lockbooths were usually rented out on minimum two-year contracts, and were only put up for chattel auctions after three years had elapsed without any contact with the leaseholder. The machine of war is a hungry colossus, and many did not return from far-off dangerous places, leaving a steady trickle of unclaimed contents to be disposed of.

  There were a number of secure boxhouses dotted around the city, and the auctioneer worked his way through about a dozen lots before reaching those with the “R” prefix. Raskol Boxhouse was out next to the city’s western wall, sandwiched between the Ithlyr slums and the crafters of Huplik Ward. Pazzyk’s three solo peers had already had plenty of fun bidding against each other, glowering and frowning at each other in turn while Misilda and Lemore enlivened matters still further with their own unpredictable bids. Pazzyk, meanwhile, had refrained from bidding, unwilling to put his meagre purse at risk. The bids and counterbids flew back and forth as three Raskol lots came and went. Then, at last, the auctioneer arrived at the reason for Pazzyk’s presence.

  “Ladies, gentlemen,” the auctioneer said. “Lot Sixteen, a single Raskol lockbooth, R-29A, being the avowed personal depository of Bearer Sergeant Traz Dalyak of the 25th Brigade of Rifles, veteran of several campaigns, declared missing in action after the Eyzakosh Intervention. Contents unknown, condition unknown. Rights on offer—forty-eight hours’ clearance. Shall we commence the bidding at five silver?”

  “Five silver,” said the elderly Misilda. “And nine copper!”

  The auctioneer gave her an amused smile. “Five silver and nine from the gentlelady at the front!”

  After that the three freelancers began bidding, a silver here, a silver and a half there. When the bids slowed at a crown and two silver, Pazzyk decided it was time and called, “One crown, eight silver.”

  “One crown and …” the auctioneer began.

  “One crown and fifteen silver,” came a voice that had not yet been heard.

  Pazzyk glanced over to where the man he thought of as the Chamberlain sat gazing levelly at the auctioneer, betraying no awareness of Pazzyk’s regard. Next to him, though, the Brute was staring straight at him, lips curled into a hateful leer. Pazzyk responded with a toothy grin then turned back to the auctioneer and raised his bid to two crowns.

  One of the freelancers chipped in with two crowns and three but after that the bidding alternated between Pazzyk and the Chamberlain. As the bids mounted a tense hush fell over the others, now reduced to the role of spectators. Seven crowns, eight crowns, nine, and still the calm, unruffled Chamberlain stepped up the amount. Pazzyk, feeling wound up and distinctly ruffled, tried to ignore the sweat prickling his scalp as the bids crept up to and past ten crowns, ten and a quarter, ten and two thirds, eleven crowns and two, eleven and a half crowns …

  When Pazzyk made what he knew might be his penultimate bid, there was a pause. Expectant eyes flicked towards the Chamberlain and the Brute. The former was frowning, and in the widening silence he and his companion exchanged a look and a wordless nod. Then they calmly rose to their feet and, without a backward glance, left the room. Pazzyk let out the breath he’d been holding and managed a weak smile in response to Misilda and Lemore’s ladylike applause.

  He waited for the other freelancers to complete their transactions with the auctioneer before going up to pay over the monies and take possession of the lease and the key. In accordance with custom and practice, the document was folded into a small pocket containing the key and bound up with string and a wax seal. Pazzyk noted that the words “Raskol 29A” were written on the front in neat cursive script before carefully slipping it into his shoulder satchel. Last to leave, he descended unhurriedly to the lobby where he saw from the porter’s chronometer that it was still not yet four. He would not have to set off back to Tillyfrays in a rush in order to be sure of handing in his prize before closing time.

  Outside, he crossed Dragoons Row and retraced his steps to Haxy Nightmarket. He strode into its gloomy, tunnel-like interior, catching the scent of fresh pastries from the cooking stalls, hints of deliciousness that made his stomach rumble. Soon he was passing through Qavilal Square, ducking round groups of Barlig traders and keeping his gaze away from the big, looming statues, despite an unfathomable urge to look round. It was like an itch at the back of his eyes which only faded when he passed under the stone arch that led to the next stretch of the Nightmarket.

  Barely a dozen paces further on he was suddenly aware of quiet footsteps behind him. A glance to the left revealed the dark-clad figure of the Chamberlain drawing level, matching gait for gait. At once, alarm sparked through him.

  “Good evening, sir,” came the man’s dry, mild voice. “How fortuitous that we should be sharing this road and travelling in the same direction.”

  Pazzyk maintained his composure. “Fortuitous is an odd word, good sir—it implies random happenstance which I do not think applies to this encounter.”

  As he spoke, Pazzyk was fumbling in his right-hand pocket for his weighted blackjack, which had eluded his grasp during the earlier ambush. Their common pace had, meanwhile, slowed to a stroll as the Chamberlain made a dismissive gesture.

  “I can assure, sir, you have nothing to fear from me.” His smile was wintry and without mercy. “That’s what my companion is for.”

  A rough hand grabbed Pazzyk’s collar from behind while another delved into the pocket his hand was in and wrenched it out, hard, strong fingers forcing him to re
lease the blackjack. It had to be the Brute.

  “You … you can’t do this … why …”

  “Please, sir, do not fuss,” said the Chamberlain. “All we require is the packet with the key. We’ll have it and be on our way.”

  “Never! Hey, help, I’m being …”

  Was all that Pazzyk could manage. The Chamberlain snapped a small glass object under his nose and a sweet fragrance coiled into his nose and down into his lungs, delectably melting all resistance. Everything was suddenly euphoric and drifting. He was aware of concerned passers-by asking if all was well, and the voice of the Chamberlain allaying all suspicions with practised authority and clever words as Pazzyk was carried along a side alley sunk in shadows.

  The carefree, floating feeling was also, he realised, immensely funny. His captors, clearly extremely naughty people, were now trying to tug the strap of his satchel up over his head which he tried to foil with arms and hands and which only approximately did as he wanted. After a giggle-drenched flurry of tugging and grabbing he wound up with the strap tangled about his neck and under his arms and his captors swearing with frustration. But before they could resort to more brutal methods, a new voice interrupted their activities. Pazzyk’s sight was blurred and distended so he had to rely on his hearing.

  “Why are you harming this man?” said the newcomer.

  “Get lost, horseboy,” said the Brute.

  “There is no need for concern,” said the Chamberlain. “Our friend is suffering from a peculiar ague and we are helping him on his way.”

  “Not my friends!” Pazzyk managed to gasp.

  “Indeed,” said the newcomer. “Not friends, but thieves. Stand away from him or prepare for a thrashing!”

  “You should have looked the other way and walked on,” said the Chamberlain. “Deal with him.”

  “Gladly,” said the Brute.

  By now Pazzyk’s mind had taken a dark turn. All his dread was now focused on the satchel and its contents, the fear of losing them assuming monstrous proportions. While the snarl and thud of hand-to-hand combat commenced in the background, the Chamberlain tried to pry the satchel out of a grasp that terrors had made unbreakable. Punching and slapping had no effect, and the man’s evil efforts descended into outright wrestling for possession of the satchel. This grunting, close-proximity struggle brought them uncomfortably face-to-face, Pazzyk uttering wordless growls and the Chamberlain’s eyes burning with fury as he continued to wrench, twist, shove and, just once, tried to strike at Pazzyk’s face with his forehead.