Commandment (4 page)

“What?” Another grime-caked laborer replied, wiping a slurry of soot and sweat from his brow.

“There scurries away the Acaanan, all guilty-like,” the first announced with satisfaction. He followed the observation by spitting out a wad of coal-tinged saliva.

“Where?” the second asked as he stepped into the portal. He leaned side to side on the end of his shovel, vying for a clear view of the bridge.

“Creol, can’t you spot a piece of coal on a slate board?” The first chided his companion with an elbow to the stomach.

“An Acaanan? I don’t see a one!” Creol whined.

“Malarkey!” the first blustered. He then turned to the third member of the pyre-building party, who up to that moment had been dutifully shoveling coal onto a wheelbarrow.

“Half-man, we needs a witness. Feast your eyes on this!” Creol called out.

In response, the Half-man plunged his shovel in the barrow and stepped forward, clapping gritty coal dust off his hands.

“Regan claims there’s an Acaanan milling around down there,” Creol continued, lighting a cigarette so flat it looked like he had sat on it. “I think he’s got an over fanciful eye.”

“Not
milling around;
she’s
buggin’ out
with all her luggage!” Regan pointed with animation.

“How can you tell it’s a woman?” Creol asked as he sucked on his cigarette with trembling hands.

“Have you seen any
male
Acaanans lurkin’ about? It
must
be her!” Regan thumped his fist into the brick wall. Creol meanwhile tilted his head to vet around a multitude of robed commuters.

“I still don’t see one!” He shrugged his shoulders.

“There! It looked like she was coming back, but there goes the critter, now sneaking off for the Third Circle!” Regan was energized and rattled a gnarled finger at a tiny figure on the bridge.

“What see you Half-man?” Creol squinted. “Two pims hang in the balance.”

“How so?” the third laborer asked.

“That Acaanan’s been skulking around for a few days, spooking the clients,” Creol began. “We can’t have that, can we? The wager was two pims. I claimed I could trap and skin the rodent.”

At this, the laborer reached into his pocket and produced a small canvas pouch. Holding it like a tiny bell, he shook the article. Its dissonant rattle suggested it contained a stew of pebbles and bones.

“Acaanans are accustomed to such eerie noises in the night,” Regan explained his side of the bet. “I wagered she’d take it in stride. Hell, it was most likely a dulcet tune to her pointed ears, lulling her off to a blissful sleep. Beside, that breed’s cravenness overrides curiosity. So I bet she wouldn’t open the door. And she didn’t!”

“
That
time!” Creol defended his position, sucking on the cigarette nervously. “But sooner or later, they all open it! Tonight is to be my masterful stroke. She will open up this time!”

“Curse the Acaanan, the lowest of slaves!” Regan lamented. “’Tis a mystery why Dumont supports those miscreants. She
used to
have puck. That a fighter’s liver should hide in her arm! What a pity!”

“So, Half-man, someone has to eradicate the Goblin’s fleas.” Creol threw his partner a sly wink.

“Of late, it has been worse.” Regan moaned. “All miserable types have swarmed our little home! We can’t let the duras savor all the critters.”

“Am I one of those types?” the Half-man asked.

“Why, no!” they both shouted in unison, each hoping to garner the Half-man’s vote for the bet’s winner.

“You’re worth your salt as a laborer!” Creol complimented. “Even if you be spotted with pepper.”

“You are a man of solemn duty!” Regan vied for Torkoth’s good favor.

“So, what say you, Half-man?” Both wanted to settle the issue.

The Half-man strained his eyes at the receding figure.

“That’s the Acaanan,” he replied, looking down toward the disappearing speck.

His version substantiated, Regan beamed with satisfaction. His smile revealed painted teeth and stained gums. Creol growled with defeat. But it wasn’t clear if his disappointment stemmed from the loss of two pims or from the fact that his appetite for the Acaanan’s blood would go unrewarded. With mild curses, he forked over the bet to his preening co-worker.

“Anyway, it’s good riddance!” Regan broadcast his own thoughts as he stowed the booty. “Those folk are always entwined in mayhem. No good ever sprang from their kind, except perhaps blood.”

“We all have a secret lurking under our skin,” the Half-man added slowly, as if his mind were elsewhere.

“Speaking of that, they say Acaanans’ bones burn for a month!” Creol mused. “Imagine the blaze if this place was filled with Acaanan skulls!”

“Her name is Lakif,” the Half-man added.

“Know you her?” Creol asked suspiciously.

“Not really.” The Half-man turned his back to the window. “Can anyone really know an Acaanan? They keep much to themselves. You’re right though, it’s good that she’s going, for she faces a long road.”

“As do we!” Creol took a hefty drag of his cigarette and flicked it out the portal. “It’s time for another load!”

As Regan pocketed his winnings he paused in thought.

“Half-man, I have a few knick-knacks ’m hankering to unload, and thought you might be interested.”

“Such as?”

“An odd assortment they be, but all rare—not to be found in any tony local shop. I bring a few with me in the rucksack.”

“I’ll take a look after Sext,” Torkoth promised and leaned into another shovel full of coal.

After a morning of backbreaking toil the Half-man returned to his quarters. Scrubbing the soot free from his right hand was no facile task. It so clogged the ravines between his scales that he was forced to use a wire brush to extricate the film. Thereafter, he gathered up his few personal belongings and left, locking the room behind.

R
AIN SPATTERED AGAINST THE TRAIN’S WINDOWPANES.
L
AKIF BLEW A SIGH OF
relief. She had narrowly beaten the downpour.

The Acaanan was speeding through Grimpkin, once again baking within the Leviathan. Her course, as before, lay westbound. Her misery would be short-lived, for her destination was the next station, the Fourth Circle Station. Although it was only one stop, to have made the trek on foot would have swallowed most of the day. Despite this, under ordinary circumstances, Lakif would have preferred walking to the station. It would have saved her a beka, the cost of the ticket. These days, every coin counted. More importantly, it would have spared her the unpleasant experience, which managed to dampen even her elated spirits. But considering her ankle was in convalescence, she considered a taxing march unwise and was forced into the unsavory ride.

She wanted to clock the time between the Third and Fourth Circles. Unfortunately, her pocket watch was useless, so she had to estimate. Lakif was habitually poor at taking inventory of time’s passage. Her best estimation was that the trip took somewhere between ten and fifteen minutes. Further occupying her thoughts was the Goblin Knight; her mind was still booked at the famed inn. She couldn’t shake the guilt of duping her swordsman. The sin of her ingratitude weighed heavily on her shoulders, and the weight of that lodestone was enough to blot out the nauseating ride. She could only console herself with a common bromide: “That without remedy is without regard.”

As the passengers streamed out, Lakif noticed an umbrella that had fallen on the cabin’s floor. The forgotten article was mercilessly trampled in the mass exodus. Lakif thought twice about ignoring it. Although the rain had let up slightly, the boiling clouds promised a long day of bouts. A new umbrella would run upward of a pim. She wasn’t sure why umbrellas were inordinately expensive. Perhaps a single monopoly controlled their entire production and distribution across the district.

Therefore, she lingered near the door, waiting for that fleeting instant before the boarders surged in. When the opportunity presented itself, she swooped down and snared the hapless article, rescuing it from certain doom under a second wave of boots. She darted out, narrowly avoiding the oncoming stampede.

The Fourth Circle Station was said to have been the first of the seven constructed. Its vicinity to the Vulcan probably explained this. In accord with this distinction, the station surpassed the others in sheer splendor. Like its brothers, it was capped with a sparkling dome and floored with a rosy pink flagstone. The voussoirs rimming the archways twinkled navy blue, and the keystone at their apexes were a transparent type of stone resembling diamond. Their luster reflected the images of those walking underneath.

For untold years, there had been talk of construction of another Leviathan. This second train would span the district’s shorter north-south axis. Being the central of the Stations, the Fourth Circle was the natural point of intersection of the two lines. As a connecting juncture, the station would have to herd a significantly greater volume of traffic. But this station wasn’t larger than any of the others, so Lakif wondered if it could handle the added burden. If there were plans for a second Leviathan on the table, it was still embryonic, and not a whisper had seeped out of the conference room.

As with the other Circle Stations, a prodigious sculpture occupied its center. The work depicted a wooded scene captured in stone. The rosy marble floor sloped up to a hillock. A copse of trees crowned the knoll. Individually, the trees were not unlike the grand oak of the Goblin Knight. They clustered close together, forming an impenetrable pass. A nude baby lay just outside the grove. Overhead, a vine looped down from the foliage, dangling like a trinket over the infant. On second look, it proved to be a serpent suspended from a branch. At the base of the hillock, a jackal was crouched. Drool from its bared fangs revealed its insane hunger.

Lakif was forced to circle around the sculpture to reach the north exit. The centerpiece was not all that alarming to her. For some reason, folklore abounded with tales of infants being deserted at the edge of forests. Clearly, these babies weren’t long for this world, as was so vividly illustrated in this sculpture. But some of the myths added a wrinkle, with infants being successfully reared by wild animals and growing up to become noble savages.

A constant drum of precipitation peeled off the crystal dome. Lakif paused at the north exit. Outside, the rain fell in sheets. A chilly breeze sailed though the arch, tossing the Acaanan’s hair around. With it came a fine cloud of freezing mist.

She immediately applauded her foresight at saving the abandoned umbrella. The opened article depicted the image of an owl’s eye on its underside. Such artwork was typical. Umbrellas were generally painted with all kinds of bestial imagery. Drawing her cloak up, she braced herself for the freezing rain.

No sooner had she cleared the exit than she ground to a halt. It seemed that every Circle Station held a wonder to bedazzle the uninitiated. The Fourth Circle Station undeniably trumped its six competitors in this regard. In the distance loomed Talos, the towering Colossus of Grimpkin. The inhospitable weather could do naught to dampen the stupendous sight. Even the Acaanan, who was by birth a distracted sort, was riveted to the imposing figure.

The megalith loomed in the offing north of the station, rising high above the surrounding edifices. The colossus was fashioned to resemble a mighty warrior. The center of his breastplate was engraved with the image of a tower. A metallic chain tasse dropped to protect his muscled thighs. Greaves covered his powerful forearms and calves.

The statue, however, was no image of an idealized fighter standing at attention. Instead, the warrior was poised in the stance of mortal combat. Both legs were widely separated, with his feet pointing in opposite directions. His torso was inclined forward as if he were lunging. The left forearm was strapped through a large round shield, which the warrior held above his head. His sword was poised over his right shoulder, readying to strike. A helmet with drawn visor obscured the myrmidon’s face. Lakif had the impression the stance was meant to depict an uphill charge. The overhead shield and doubled forward pose was designed to evade enemy missile fire.

She marveled at the sheer size of the titan. The metallic giant rose higher than any neighboring edifice. In size it probably rivaled the Efreeti’s Curse, the Fourth Circle’s Son of Man. The construct was certainly worthy of the fanfare accredited to it; it was the indomitable presence of Grimpkin’s skyline.

Of course, she had heard of the titan. The goliath was dubbed one of the Seven Wonders of the World. As such, she had previously formulated a mental image of the statue, one quite at odds with what she now witnessed. In tune with its terrific proportions and far-flung fame, she had imagined the statue would have resembled a figure standing erect and true like a noble general, with a sword at his breast and a shield at his side as he surveyed the battlefield. She would never have imagined such an embattled warrior, direly locked into mortal combat. This sorry day, however, the stout warrior faced more than an unseen foe. He was battling the bellicose weather as well.

The goliath’s majesty forced the Acaanan to stop and wonder. The warrior was donned in armor of the kind Lakif had read about from antiquity. She had never seen an actual fighter so armored.

Common belief held that the construct dated into the forgotten past. Its construction had been depicted in a tapestry within the Goblin Knight. Popular wisdom holds that it took over fifty years to build. The services of scores of architects, hundreds of blacksmiths, and thousands of laborers were employed.

Why such a monument would be the focus of such activity was beyond the Acaanan. Unlike the Leviathan, which served a public service, the titan was merely a work of art, a testament to the creative genius of man. Heresy held that it was modeled after the so-called Unknown Soldier. It was said that during the construction of the catacombs underpinning the Coliseum, the body of a soldier was unearthed. Countless skeletal remains girdled it, suggesting that he hadn’t met his end alone. As luck would have it, the corpse was reasonably well preserved. The soldier’s armor was identical to that adopted by the Minauros legion in the Renaissance. The body had presumably been buried under the shockwave that had overturned Phlegra, the ultimate battlefield of the Renaissance. The mummy was hauled off to some museum, but the warrior’s last valiant struggle lived on in much more than poem and song. He was immortalized in the Colossus of Grimpkin.