The Killing Moon (Dreamblood) (28 page)

And if that happens, I’ll be lucky if he only beheads me.
Which reminded him of the task at hand.

The guard returned with a salt biscuit and a cup of lemon-water, which he held for the messenger, as the man’s hands would not stop shaking. “Take a fourday’s rest,” Charris said, “but you must leave this place to do it. Guard, help him to the stables.”

The messenger started and spilled a little of the water down his chin; out of habit he wiped his chin and licked the moisture from that hand. “Sir? Begging your pardon, but my horse is half dead, and I’m not much better—”

“You may have a fresh mount from our stable. But you should go quickly.”

“It’s a whole extra day to the city from here, sir!”

Charris scowled. “Stay, then,” he snapped. “But when you hear what’s about to happen and the sound haunts your nightmares for the rest of your life, remember that I tried to spare you.”

He turned on his heel, ignoring the messenger’s confused
“Sir?” behind him. As he walked off the parapet into the tower stairwell, he heard the prison guard telling the messenger to leave and not be a fool. Ah, but of course; the prison guards had witnessed this horror before, though on a lesser scale. They knew what was to come better than Charris himself did.

On the ground level the warden of the prison met him, his craggy face tight with nervousness. “Your, ah, guest has been restless, sir,” the man said, turning to walk with Charris. “We tried to put food through the window-bars, but he growled at us and flung it out. We could try again—”

“No,” Charris said. He reached for his hip-pouch and took out the rough chunk of jungissa-stone that the Prince had given him. “Food isn’t what he hungers for right now. Make certain your men are out of the courtyard, and then wait.”

He walked through the arched corridor that led to the other courtyard. Normally prisoners were let out to exercise here, but at the moment the dusty yard held only the reinforced wagon. The horses had been unhitched to stop them from chafing against the harness; they kept trying to get away from the wagon. As Charris walked toward it he heard nothing from within, though he sensed the attention of the thing inside. The window-shutters had been nailed closed save for the one used to feed its occupant. This one was barred, but as Niyes drew close he saw only darkness within.

He stopped just beyond the range of any arm that might extend through the bars and took a deep breath to school his thoughts. The Prince had given him explicit instructions, but between the pounding of his heart and the knowledge of what was to happen, he could barely remember them.

Then he heard something stir within the wagon. A halting voice, thick and clotted, spoke from the darkness. “Is it sunset, Brother? Will… will we go out tonight?”

Charris swallowed and tapped the back of the jungissa to set it humming. “Not tonight,” he said, keeping his voice soft, no louder than the stone’s hum. “But there is work for you here. Can you feel them? Gath—” He faltered, sought another word. “Assembled nearby. One hundred men in the next courtyard over. They have been judged corrupt and require your aid.”

There was a shifting sound from within the wagon; the faint clink of chains. “I feel them. So many…” Then the voice hardened. “So many
corrupt
.”

Charris swallowed. “Yes. You must take them, Brother—all of them at once. Do you understand? From where you are, without touching them. Can you do that?”

The scrolls were explicit
, the Prince had told him.
In every account, Reapers could do this and more, Charris—see without eyes, kill without hands, drink life like wine and spit back wonders. Magic to rival the gods themselves. Don’t you want to see that for yourself?

Not for all the riches in existence
, Charris had thought, though he’d known better than to give that answer aloud.

Within the wagon, Charris heard a long slow breath as though the creature tested the air through the barred window. “Filth and hatred. Do you feel it, Brother? Their fear?”

“Yes.” That one Charris didn’t have to feign. “I feel it.”

“Filth.” The Reaper’s voice was hard again, almost angry. “They always fear us. No faith… blasphemy. I must purify them all. I must… I must…”

The first screams caught Charris by surprise. He’d thought there would be some warning. But Charris could still hear the creature muttering to himself within the wagon even as the individual screams blended into dozens, then a great chorus of anguish—which then began, voice by voice, to fall silent.

Then the chorus resumed, closer by.

Charris turned toward the archway and froze in shock. The warden stood there, his body rigid, his face twisting into an expression like nothing Charris had ever seen before—though his eyes were shut tight. Asleep. It was the guards who were screaming at the sight of him; the warden himself was silent. As Charris watched, the warden began to shake all over, his hands clenching and unclenching in rapid spasm, urine splattering the dusty ground beneath his loindrapes. His eyes snapped open suddenly, awake but not awake, white as cowrie shells. The muscles of his neck stood out in taut cords as his teeth ground audibly.

“No,” Charris whispered.

“
No faith
,” snarled the Reaper.

It was happening all around now, throughout the prison fortress. The prisoners were dead. The guards were dying.

“No!” Horror woke Charris from his stupor at last. He ran to the wagon and banged on the bars. “Stop it! Not them! They—they are your brothers, you shouldn’t, not them—”

“My brothers would not fear,” came the voice from within, sounding more lucid now. More than lucid; there was a fierce, gleeful undercurrent in its voice.

“Stop it, gods damn you! You’re killing everyone!”

Something moved in the shadows and then suddenly the
Reaper was at the bars. His eyes, the color of pitted iron surrounded by bloodshot whites, saw beyond the world into some nightmarish place Charris prayed he would never visit. Housing them was a painfully gaunt face, skin stretched so tightly over the bones that it shone like leather. That skin crinkled now—he expected to hear the sound of its flexing and folding, like dead leaves—in a rictus that Charris realized hours later was the Reaper’s attempt to smile.

“I do not ‘kill,’ ” the Reaper said.

Nearby, the last of the guards fell silent. Staring into those eyes, wishing he could close his own, Charris abruptly became aware that the only sound he could hear other than the wind was the jungissa’s soft hum. Everyone else in the prison was dead.

Everyone but him.

Only the jungissa protects me
, he realized.

And as that understanding came, his hand began, treacherously, to shake.

He whimpered, sensing with instinctive certainty that if he dropped the stone, the Reaper would take him. He could see that in the thing’s mad eyes. It—for Charris could no longer think of the Reaper as a man—would burrow into his mind and rip loose his tether and drag him into the dank, shadowed cavern at its own core. There it would devour him mind and soul, leaving his flesh behind to rot.

As if hearing his thought, the Reaper nodded slowly. Then it moved back from the bars, fading once more into the shadows. By then trembling uncontrollably, Charris dropped the jun
gissa. It fell into the dust and stopped humming, leaving only the low sigh of the wind.

Some time passed.

Later, Charris could not have said how long. He had no thoughts during that time, as he waited for the first cold, invisible caress of death. But as his mind gradually resumed functioning, he became aware of slow, heavy breaths from within the wagon. The monster, having fed, now slept.

Charris looked up and saw that the stars had come out, framing the massive hemisphere of the rising Dreamer. By its multihued light he bent, stiffly, and picked up the jungissa. After a moment’s thought he set it humming again and attached it to the gold-and-lapis collar his wife had given him at their marriage. The stone’s faint whine resonated against the metal in a monotone song. That song comforted him as he finally turned to make his way out of the courtyard, heading to the stable to find the horses. For a moment the prospect of riding through the night with that
thing
hitched behind him almost made him stop thinking again, but the jungissa’s song gradually lulled away his fears. It would keep him safe. Even monsters respected some boundaries.

He stepped carefully over the messenger’s body as he prepared to return to Yanya-iyan.

When Sunandi saw the Gatherer go into the old woman’s tent, she decided to act. Clenching her fists, she marched after him, intending to denounce him in front of the whole caravan if she had to—and then the boy stepped out of the shadows beside the tent. She stopped dead, suddenly uneasy. Were Gatherer-Apprentices permitted to kill? She couldn’t recall, but something told her this one wouldn’t care about permission.

But then the boy startled her by speaking. “He has sanction. That of the Goddess is all he needs, but he also spoke with Gehanu.”

That shattered Sunandi’s rising anger. Her fists unclenched and she stared at him. “I don’t believe you.”

“Not everyone fears death the way you do.” There was no scorn in the boy’s manner this time. His anger from their earlier
altercation seemed to have faded completely. “Go speak to Gehanu if you doubt me.”

“I will.” She pivoted on her heel before she could question herself. Logic told her that in the time it took her to speak to Gehanu, the Gatherer could kill the old woman, but suddenly her courage seemed to have deserted her. The boy’s manner had unnerved her too much. In that brief exchange he’d seemed far too much like his mentor, exuding the same perverse mingling of menace and compassion. That had been an unpleasant reminder of her own status of “abeyance,” and the even less pleasant knowledge that they could revoke that status whenever they pleased.

It had been an error of judgment to discount the boy as a threat, she decided, trying to get a grip on her fear as she crossed the encampment and drummed on Gehanu’s tent. Whatever the Hetawa did to train its killers had already set its mark deep in his soul.

Gehanu called for Sunandi to enter in her own tongue and grinned when she saw who it was, switching languages with the ease of a veteran trader. “Ah, Nefe. I would have thought you’d still be in the baths, enjoying a taste of civilization. Spoiled city woman.”

Sunandi forced a smile, moving to sit opposite Gehanu’s pallet. “I had a good soak earlier. ’Anu—about my companions—”

“The priest, you mean?” Gehanu smiled at Sunandi’s startled nod. “You have so many secrets, some of them break loose when you aren’t looking.”

“So it seems. Then he
does
have your sanction? The boy said so. I didn’t believe him.”

“The boy was a surprise. Never saw a young one before, though I suppose they can’t spring whole from gourds. Yes, I told him he could talk to Talithele.”

“You—” She struggled to keep her tone polite and not accusatory. “You are aware of what he might do to her?”

“If she wants it.”

“His kind don’t care whether you want it or not.”

Gehanu raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you the one who brought him here?”

“Under duress. I don’t trust him. I don’t even like him.”

“A shame. He seems decent enough.”

“For a killer! One of his ‘brothers’…” She faltered as the grief rose again to mingle with her anger, nearly choking her. She pushed the word out around it. “Lin.”

“The scamp? She was Gathered?”

“No, murdered. That thing that’s been running around the city—”

“Ah!” Gehanu uttered a soft wail. “Not that! Tell me not!” She caught her breath when Sunandi nodded. “Oh gods of earth and sky.”

“That monster started out as a Servant of Hananja, like him,” Sunandi said, nodding in the direction of Talithele’s tent. “That’s why you should stop him.”

But to her surprise, Gehanu shook her head. “Not my place. The choice belongs to Talithele.”