The Charnel Prince (11 page)

“What now?” Leoff asked.

“Now we go to Broogh and see what mischief is goin’ on there.”

“But Artwair didn’t come back.”

“Then he may need our help.”

It seemed to Leoff that any trouble Artwair couldn’t get himself out of was likely to
be
far
too much for the likes of a composer and a windsmith. He started to say as much, but then another thought occurred. Gilmer must have seen it on his face. “What?” the old man asked.

“My instruments. My things!”

The old man nodded sadly. “Auy. We’ve both lost today. Now think about what those folk down there will lose if these villains break the dike.”

“I just wonder what we can do. I can’t fight. I know nothing of weapons.”

“Well, me neither,” Gilmer replied, “but that doesn’t mean I’ll just let it happen.”

As if mourning the malend, the wind dropped, and stillness settled on the canal, broken only by the liquid pull of oars through water. Leoff watched the banks anxiously, fearing that the men might be following them along it, but nothing stirred through the stately silhouettes of the elms that bordered the waterway.

Soon the trees were joined by larger shadows—cottages at first, then tall buildings. The canal narrowed.

“The gate is ahead,” Gilmer whispered. “Be ready.”

“For what?” Leoff asked.

“I’ve no cann,” the elder man said.

The Watergate was a simple one made of wrought iron, and it was open. They passed almost noiselessly through it and into the town of Broogh.

The strange silence of the night was thicker there than it had been farther down the canal, as if Broogh were the very heart of the stillness. Neither did the faintest candle illumine the windows. They were filmed with moonlight like the eyes of the blind.

Quietly, Gilmer guided the small boat to a quay.

“You first,” he told Leoff. “Careful not to rock me.”

Leoff stepped gingerly from the boat and onto the stone landing, and a shiver ran up his spine as his feet touched solid ground.

Artwair had been right—something was terribly wrong here.

“Hold her steady for me,” Gilmer said. “Be useful, auy?”

“Sorry,” Leoff whispered. Even his faint reply seemed to echo in the silent town. He held the edge of the boat while the windsmith tied her off, feeling the pulse in his throat.

Broogh was beautiful, cloaked in moonlight. The tall, narrow buildings were leafed in silver, and the cobbles of the streets seemed liquid while the waters of the canal had become a sheet of mica. The bridge that must have given the town its name arched strong and elegant a few paces away, a saint sleeping in stone at each pillar. Beyond, across and down the canal, rose the bell tower of the church.

Just next to him, on the street parallel to the canal, a wooden sign was barely readable in faint light. It proclaimed the door beneath as the entrance to the paiter’s fatem. Beneath the words was a small wooden bas-relief of a fat sacritor filling a cup from a cask of wine.

When Gilmer finished with the boat, he pointed at the Paiter’s Fatem. “There,” he said. “That’s the busiest tavern in town, and it should be awful busy right now.”

Like every other building in Broogh, it was quiet and dark.

“We’ll have a look inside,” Gilmer murmured. “If everyone is hiding, you can bet half the town is hiding in there. In the cellar, maybe.”

“Hiding from what? A few rascals like the ones who burned your windmill?”

“No,” Gilmer said. “Broogh has a reputation.”

“What do you mean?”

“Evildoers have sought out this town in the past. Its location is perfect—break the dike here, and the water won’t stop for sixty leagues. It’s been tried. Thirty years ago, a renegade Hansan knight—Sir Remismund fram Wulthaurp—came here with twenty horse and a hundred foot. He installed himself in this very inn and sent letters to Eslen, threatenin’ to open the waters unless he was given ransom.”

“But he didn’t?”

“Nay. A girl, the daughter of a boatwright, the fairest in town, was to be married the next day. She put on her weddin’ gown and went to Wulthaurp, up there, in that topmost apartment. She kissed him, and as they kissed, there, near that window, she wound the train of her dress about his neck and threw herself from the buildin’. They made a bloody mess almost where you’re standin’. At that signal, the rest of the folk turned against his men. The army had to fight its way out the gate, leaving nearly a hundred Brooghers dead in the streets.” He shook his head. “Nor was that the first time such a thing has happened. No, every boy and girl who grows up in Broogh thinks of the dike and the bridge as a holy trust. They all yearn to be the hero of the next story.”

“And yet you think something has frightened them into hiding?”

Gilmer shook his head. “No,” he said sadly, “I fear they’re nay hidin’ at all.”

The door opened with no more protest than a faint creak, but their entry drew no response. Muttering to himself, Gilmer took out his tinderbox and struck light to a candle.

“Holy saints!” Leoff gasped, when the light fell about them.

There were indeed a lot of people in the Paiter’s Fatem, or what had once been people. They lay or slumped in groups, unmoving. Leoff had no doubt whatever that they were dead. Even in the warm light of fire, their flesh was whiter than bone.

“Their eyes,” Gilmer said, his voice thick with emotion.

Leoff noticed then, and he doubled to the floor, retching. The very earth seemed to reel beneath him and the sky to press down.

None of the dead in the tavern had eyes, only ashy pits.

Gilmer clapped his hand on Leoff’s shoulder. “Easy,” he said. “We don’t want them as did this to hear us, do we?” The old man’s voice was quavering.

“I can’t . . .” Another wave of nausea came over Leoff and he pressed his forehead to the hardwood floor.

It was many long moments before he could look up again.

When he did, it was to find Gilmer studying the corpses.

“Why would they burn out their eyes?” Leoff managed.

“Saints know. But they didn’t do it with brands or hot irons. The eyes are still there, just gone to charcoal.”

“Shinecraft,” Leoff whispered.

“Auy. Shinecraft most foul.”

“But why?”

Gilmer straightened, his face grim. “So’s they can break the dike and have no hindrance or witness.” His lips puckered. “But they aens’t broken it yet, have they? There’s still time.”

“Time to do what?” Leoff asked incredulously.

Gilmer’s face went flat. “These people were my friends,” he said. “You stay here, if you please.”

He searched through the corpses for a moment and finally came up with a knife.

“Whoever did this aens’t counted on anyone living now. They don’t know about us.”

“And when they do, we’ll end just like these,” Leoff said desperately.

“Auy, could well be,” Gilmer said, and walked toward the door.

Leoff looked again at the dead and sighed. “I’m coming,” he said.

When they were back on the street, he glanced again at the cobbles. “What was her name?” he asked.

“Eh?”

“The bride.”

“Ah. Lihta. Lihta Rungsdautar.”

“And her fiancé? What became of him?”

Gilmer’s mouth quirked. “He never married. He became a windsmith, like his father. Hush, now—the floodgate isn’t far.”

They passed more dead in the streets, all with the same empty gaze. Not just people, but animals, as well—dogs, horses—even rats. Some had expressions of terror frozen on their faces, while others looked merely puzzled. Some—the worst somehow—seemed to have died in rapture.

Leoff noticed something else, as well—a smell, a faint odor of putrefaction. Yet it did not have the scent of the grave or butcher shop. There was no hint of maggots or sulfury gases. It reminded him of dry rot—subtle, not really unpleasant, with a faint perfume of burnt sugar.

As he progressed, he made out a noise, as well—a rhythmic hammering—not like a single hammer, but like many, all beating the bass line of the same dirge.

“That’s them working at the wall!” Gilmer said. “Hurry.”

He led them to the city wall and the stone stairs that went up it. They stepped over dead guardsmen to reach the top. From there they looked down.

Newland was moon-frosted to the horizon, but just below them, the wall cast a shadow down the embanked dike it stood upon. Torches burned there, flames straight and unwavering in the windless dark. Five men stripped to their waists were working at a stone section of the dam, hacking away with picks. Another five or six looked on—it was hard to tell exactly how many.

“Why is that one section made of stone?”

“It’s a cap. Most of the dike is banked earth. It would take too long to dig through it if the king
needed
to have Newland flooded, as has happened now and then. But it’s never been done at royal behest without warning to the low-dwellers.”

“But won’t they be drowned when they cut through?”

“Nay. They’re digging a narrow hole, see? The water will come out in a jet and tear the hole bigger as it goes, but it’ll give them time to move.”

“Who do you think it is?”

“Saints know.”

“Well, what can we do?”

“I’m thinking.”

Leoff strained his eyes to understand more of the scene. There was a pattern down there. What was it?

He settled his mind. There was the landscape, and the dike. They were like the staff that music was written on. Then there were the men digging, like the melody line, and the men silently standing guard, like the low throbbing bass notes of a pavane.

And that was all . . .

“No,” he whispered.

“Eh?”

Leoff pointed. “Look, there are dead down there, too.”

“Not surprising. Anyone alive would try to stop ‘em.” The windsmith squinted. “Right, see? They came around from the gate and attacked ‘em from behind.”

“But see how they’re lying, in a sort of arc? As if something simply struck them down when they got too close.”

Gilmer shook his head. “Aens’t you ever seen battle? If they formed their line there, that’s where they’d fall.”

“But I don’t see any signs of a fight. We haven’t seen any signs of battle
anywhere
in town, yet everyone is dead.”

“Auy. I noticed that,” Gilmer said dryly.

“So they form an arc. Look to the center of the arc.”

“What do you mean?”

“A lantern casts light in a circle, yes? Pretend where the corpses are is the edge of a circle of light. Now look for the lantern.”

With a skeptical grunt, Gilmer did that. After a moment, he whispered, “There is something. Some sort of box or crate with a cloak over it.”

“I’m willing to bet that it’s what struck down the people of Broogh. If we go down there—if they see us at all—they’ll turn it on us.”

“Turn
what
on us?”

“I don’t know. I don’t have any idea. But it’s covered up, and there has to be some reason. Something tells me we can’t do anything as long as they have that.”

Gilmer was silent for a long moment. “You may be right,” he said, “but if you’re wrong . . .”

“I don’t believe I am.”

Gilmer nodded solemnly and peered back down. “It aens’t far from the wall, is it?”

“Not too. What do you have in mind?”

“Follow me.”

The little man gingerly searched the guardsmen for weapons, but found their scabbards empty—small wonder, considering the cost of a good sword. Then he guided Leoff along the top of the wall to a small storehouse. They had to step over six dead bodies along the way.

Gilmer opened the door, stepped into shadow, and stepped out again, grunting. He held a rock the size of Leoff’s head. “Help me with this.”

The two of them wrestled the stone to the parapet.

“Reckon we can toss it out far enough?” Gilmer asked.

“There’s a slope,” Leoff replied. “Even if we miss, it will roll.”

“Might not destroy that shinecrafting box, then. We’ll have to heave together.”

Leoff nodded and put both hands on the stone. When they had it aimed, Gilmer said very softly, “On three. One, two—”

“Hey! Hey there!” A shout went up, farther along the wall, not far from them at all.

“Go!” Gilmer shouted.

They heaved. Leoff wanted to watch, but someone was running along the battlement toward them, and he didn’t think it was for a friendly chat.

THE RIVER ZA DISSOLVED Anne’s tears and swept them gently toward the sea.

Canaries sang in the olive and orange trees that struggled up through the ancient cracked flagstones of the terrace, and the wind was sweet with baking bread and autumn honeywands. Dragonflies whirred lazily in the pour of golden sunlight, and somewhere nearby a man strummed liquid chords on a lute and crooned softly of love. In the city of z’Espino, winter came gently, and this first day of Novamenza was especially kind.