Bonehunters Read online

  Gasping, leaning against the horse, Samar Dev tracked the double strands of the rope the man held, and saw that he had been dragging something while he rode. Two huge rotted heads. Dogs or bears, as oversized as the man himself.

  The warrior reached down and unceremoniously pulled her up until she was settled behind him. More waves of pain, darkness threatening.

  ‘Beneath notice,’ he said again.

  Samar Dev glanced back at those two severed heads. ‘That goes without saying,’ she said.

  Musty darkness in the small room, the air stale and sweaty. Two slitted, rectangular holes in the wall just beneath the low ceiling allowed the cool night air to slip inside in fitful gusts, like sighs from a waiting world. For the woman huddled on the floor beside the narrow bed, that world would have to wait a little longer. Arms closed about her drawn-up knees, head lowered, sheathed in black hair that hung in oily strands, she wept. And to weep was to be inside oneself, entirely, an inner place far more unrelenting and unforgiving than anything that could be found outside. She wept for the man she had abandoned, fleeing the pain she had seen in his eyes, as his love for her kept him stumbling in her wake, matching each footfall yet unable to come any closer. For that she could not allow. The intricate patterns on a hooded snake held mesmerizing charms, but the bite was no less deadly for that. She was the same. There was nothing in her – nothing that she could see – worth the overwhelming gift of love. Nothing in her worthy of him.

  He had blinded himself to that truth, and that was his flaw, the flaw he had always possessed. A willingness, perhaps a need, to believe in the good, where no good could be found. Well, this was a love she could not abide, and she would not take him down her path.

  Cotillion had understood. The god had seen clearly into the depths of this mortal darkness, as clearly as had Apsalar. And so there had been nothing veiled in the words and silences exchanged between her and the patron god of assassins. A mutual recognition. The tasks he set before her were of a nature suited to his aspect, and to her particular talents. When condemnation had already been pronounced, one could not be indignant over the sentence. But she was no god, so far removed from humanity as to find amorality a thing of comfort, a refuge from one’s own deeds. Everything was getting… harder, harder to manage.

  He would not miss her for long. His eyes would slowly open. To other possibilities. He travelled now with two other women, after all – Cotillion had told her that much. So. He would heal, and would not be alone for long, she was certain of that.

  More than sufficient fuel to feed her self-pity.

  Even so, she had tasks set before her, and it would not do to wallow overlong in this unwelcome self-indulgence. Apsalar slowly raised her head, studied the meagre, grainy details of the room. Trying to recall how she had come to be here. Her head ached, her throat was parched. Wiping the tears from her cheeks, she slowly stood. Pounding pain behind her eyes.

  From somewhere below she could hear tavern sounds, a score of voices, drunken laughter. Apsalar found her silk-lined cloak, reversed it and slipped the garment over her shoulders, then she walked over to the door, unlocked it, and stepped out into the corridor beyond. Two wavering oil-lamps set in niches along the wall, a railing and stairs at the far end. From the room opposite hers came the muffled noise of lovemaking, the woman’s cries too melodramatic to be genuine. Apsalar listened a moment longer, wondering what it was about the sounds that disturbed her so, then she moved through the flicker of shadows, reaching the steps, and made her way down.

  It was late, probably well after the twelfth bell. Twenty or so patrons occupied the tavern, half of them in the livery of caravan guards. They were not regulars, given the unease with which they were regarded by the remaining denizens, and she noted, as she approached the counter, that three were Gral, whilst another pair, both women, were Pardu. Both rather unpleasant tribes, or so Cotillion’s memories informed her in a subtle rustle of disquiet. Typically raucous and overbearing, their eyes finding and tracking her progress to the bar; she elected caution and so kept her gaze averted.

  The barman walked over as she arrived. ‘Was beginning to think you’d died,’ he said, as he lifted a bottle of rice wine into view and set it before her. ‘Before you dip into this, lass, I’d like to see some coin.’

  ‘How much do I owe you so far?’

  ‘Two silver crescents.’

  She frowned. ‘I thought I’d paid already.’

  ‘For the wine, aye. But then you spent a night and a day and an evening in the room – and I have to charge you for tonight as well, since it’s too late to try renting it out now. Finally,’ he gestured, ‘there’s this bottle here.’

  ‘I didn’t say I wanted it,’ she replied. ‘But if you’ve any food left…’

  ‘I’ve some.’

  She drew out her coin pouch and found two crescents. ‘Here. Assuming this is for tonight’s room as well.’

  He nodded. ‘You don’t want the wine, then?’

  ‘No. Sawr’ak beer, if you please.’

  He collected the bottle and headed off.

  A figure pushed in on either side of her. The Pardu women. ‘See those Gral?’ one asked, nodding to a nearby table. ‘They want you to dance for them.’

  ‘No they don’t,’ Apsalar replied.

  ‘No,’ the other woman said, ‘they do. They’ll even pay. You walk like a dancer. We could all see that. You don’t want to upset them—’

  ‘Precisely. Which is why I won’t dance for them.’

  The two Pardu were clearly confused by that. In the interval the barman arrived with a tankard of beer and a tin bowl of goat soup, the layer of fat on the surface sporting white hairs to give proof of its origin. He added a hunk of dark bread. ‘Good enough?’

  She nodded. ‘Thank you.’ Then turned to the woman who had first spoken. ‘I am a Shadow Dancer. Tell them that, Pardu.’

  Both women backed off suddenly, and Apsalar leaned on the counter, listening to the hiss of words spreading out through the tavern. All at once she found she had some space around her. Good enough.

  The bartender was regarding her warily. ‘You’re full of surprises,’ he said. ‘That dance is forbidden.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘You’re from Quon Tali,’ he said in a quieter voice. ‘Itko Kan, I’d guess, by the tilt of your eyes and that black hair. Never heard of a Shadow Dancer out of Itko Kan.’ He leaned close. ‘I was born just outside Gris, you see. Was regular infantry in Dassem’s army, took a spear in the back my first battle and that was it for me. I missed Y’Ghatan, for which I daily give thanks to Oponn. You understand. Didn’t see Dassem die and glad for it.’

  ‘But you still have stories aplenty,’ Apsalar said.

  ‘That I have,’ he said with an emphatic nod. Then his gaze sharpened on her. After a moment he grunted and moved away.

  She ate, sipped ale, and her headache slowly faded.

  Some time later, she gestured to the barman and he approached. ‘I am going out,’ she said, ‘but I wish to keep the room so do not rent it out to anyone else.’

  He shrugged. ‘You’ve paid for it. I lock up at fourth bell.’

  She straightened and made her way towards the door. The caravan guards tracked her progress, but none made move to follow – at least not immediately.

  She hoped they would heed the implicit warning she’d given them. She already intended to kill a man this night, and one was enough, as far as she was concerned.

  Stepping outside, Apsalar paused for a moment. The wind had died. The stars were visible as blurry motes behind the veil of fine dust still settling in the storm’s wake. The air was cool and still. Drawing her cloak about her and slipping her silk scarf over the lower half of her face, Apsalar swung left down the street. At the juncture of a narrow alley, thick with shadows, she slipped suddenly into the gloom and was gone.

  A few moments later the two Pardu women padded towards the alley. They paused at its mouth, looking down the t
wisted track, seeing no-one.

  ‘She spoke true,’ one hissed, making a warding sign. ‘She walks the shadows.’

  The other nodded. ‘We must inform our new master.’

  They headed off.

  Standing within the warren of Shadow, the two Pardu looking ghostly, seeming to shiver into and out of existence as they strode up the street, Apsalar watched them for another dozen heartbeats. She was curious as to who their master might be, but that was a trail she would follow some other night. Turning away, she studied the shadow-wrought world she found herself in. On all sides, a lifeless city. Nothing like Ehrlitan, the architecture primitive and robust, with gated lintel-stone entrances to narrow passageways that ran straight and high-walled. No-one walked those cobbled paths. The buildings to either side of the passageways were all two storeys or less, flat-roofed, and no windows were visible. High narrow doorways gaped black in the grainy gloom.

  Even Cotillion’s memories held no recognition of this manifestation in the Shadow Realm, but this was not unusual. There seemed to be uncounted layers, and the fragments of the shattered warren were far more extensive than one might expect. The realm was ever in motion, bound to some wayward force of migration, scudding ceaseless across the mortal world. Overhead, the sky was slate grey – what passed for night in Shadow, and the air was turgid and warm.

  One of the passageways led in the direction of Ehrlitan’s central flat-topped hill, the Jen’rahb, once the site of the Falah’d Crown, now a mass of rubble. She set off down it, eyes on the looming, near-transparent wreckage of tumbled stone. The path opened out onto a square, each of the four walls lined with shackles. Two sets still held bodies. Desiccated, slumped in the dust, skin-wrapped skulls sunk low, resting on gracile-boned chests; one was at the end opposite her, the other at the back of the left-hand wall. A portal broke the line of the far wall near the right-side corner.

  Curious, Apsalar approached the nearer figure. She could not be certain, but it appeared to be Tiste, either Andii or Edur. The corpse’s long straight hair was colourless, bleached by antiquity. Its accoutrements had rotted away, leaving only a few withered strips and corroded bits of metal. As she crouched before it, there was a swirl of dust beside the body, and her brows lifted as a shade slowly rose into view. Translucent flesh, the bones strangely luminescent, a skeletal face with black-pitted eyes.

  ‘The body’s mine,’ it whispered, bony fingers clutching the air. ‘You can’t have it.’

  The language was Tiste Andii, and Apsalar was vaguely surprised that she understood it. Cotillion’s memories and the knowledge hidden within them could still startle her on occasion.

  ‘What would I do with the body?’ she asked. ‘I have my own, after all.’

  ‘Not here. I see naught but a ghost.’

  ‘As do I.’

  It seemed startled. ‘Are you certain?’

  ‘You died long ago,’ she said. ‘Assuming the body in chains is your own.’

  ‘My own? No. At least, I don’t think so. It might be. Why not? Yes, it was me, once, long ago. I recognize it. You are the ghost, not me. I’ve never felt better, in fact. Whereas you look… unwell’

  ‘Nonetheless,’ Apsalar said, ‘I have no interest in stealing a corpse.’

  The shade reached out and brushed the corpse’s lank, pale hair. ‘I was lovely, you know. Much admired, much pursued by the young warriors of the enclave. Perhaps I still am, and it is only my spirit that has grown so… tattered. Which is more visible to the mortal eye? Vigour and beauty moulding flesh, or the miserable wretch hiding beneath it?’

  Apsalar winced, looked away. ‘Depends, I think, on how closely you look.’

  ‘And how clear your vision. Yes, I agree. And beauty, it passes so quickly, doesn’t it just? But misery, ah, misery abides.’

  A new voice hissed from where the other corpse hung in its chains. ‘Don’t listen to her! Treacherous bitch, look where we ended up! My fault? Oh no, I was the honest one. Everyone knew that – and prettier besides, don’t let her tell you otherwise! Come over here, dear ghost, and hear the truth!’

  Apsalar straightened. ‘I am not the ghost here—’

  ‘Dissembler! No wonder you prefer her to me!’

  She could see the other shade now, a twin to the first one, hovering over its own corpse, or at least the body it claimed as its own. ‘How did you two come to be here?’ she asked.

  The second shade pointed at the first. ‘She’s a thief!’

  ‘So are you!’ the first one retorted.

  ‘I was only following you, Telorast! “Oh, let’s break into Shadowkeep! There’s no-one there, after all! We could make off with uncounted riches!” Why did I believe you? I was a fool—’

  ‘Well,’ cut in the other, ‘that’s something we can agree on, at least.’

  ‘There is no purpose,’ Apsalar said, ‘to the two of you remaining here. Your corpses are rotting away, but those shackles will never release them.’

  ‘You serve the new master of Shadow!’ The second shade seemed most agitated with its own accusation. ‘That miserable, slimy, wretched—’

  ‘Quiet!’ hissed the first shade, Telorast. ‘He’ll come back to taunt us some more! I, for one, have no desire ever to see him again. Nor those damned Hounds.’ The ghost edged closer to Apsalar. ‘Most kind servant of the wondrous new master, to answer your question, we would indeed love to leave this place. Alas, where would we go?’ It gestured with one filmy, bony hand. ‘Beyond the city, there are terrible creatures. Deceitful, hungry, numerous! Now,’ it added in a purr, ‘had we an escort…’

  ‘Oh yes,’ cried the second shade, ‘an escort, to one of the gates – a modest, momentary responsibility, yet we would be most thankful.’

  Apsalar studied the two creatures. ‘Who imprisoned you? And speak the truth, else you’ll receive no help from me.’

  Telorast bowed deeply, then seemed to settle even lower, and it was a moment before Apsalar realized it was grovelling. ‘Truth to tell. We would not lie as to this. No clearer recollection and no purer integrity in relating said recollection will you hear in any realm. ’Twas a demon lord—’

  ‘With seven heads!’ the other interjected, bobbing up and down in some ill-contained excitement.

  Telorast cringed. ‘Seven heads? Were there seven? There might well have been. Why not? Yes, seven heads!’

  ‘And which head,’ Apsalar asked, ‘claimed to be the lord?’

  ‘The sixth!’

  ‘The second!’

  The two shades regarded each other balefully, then Telorast raised a skeletal finger. ‘Precisely! Sixth from the right, second from the left!’

  ‘Oh, very good,’ crooned the other.

  Apsalar faced the shade. ‘Your companion’s name is Telorast – what is yours?’

  It flinched, bobbed, then began its own grovelling, raising minute clouds of dust. ‘Prince – King Cruel, the Slayer of All Foes. The Feared. The Worshipped.’ It hesitated, then, ‘Princess Demure? Beloved of a thousand heroes, bulging, stern-faced men one and all!’ A twitch, low muttering, a brief clawing at its own face. ‘A warlord, no, a twenty-two-headed dragon, with nine wings and eleven thousand fangs. Given the chance…’

  Apsalar crossed her arms. ‘Your name.’

  ‘Curdle.’

  ‘Curdle.’

  ‘I do not last long.’

  ‘Which is what brought us to this sorry demise in the first place,’ Telorast said. ‘You were supposed to watch the path – I specifically told you to watch the path—’

  ‘I did watch it!’

  ‘But failed to see the Hound Baran—’

  ‘I saw Baran, but I was watching the path.’

  ‘All right,’ Apsalar said, sighing, ‘why should I provide you two with an escort? Give me a reason, please. Any reason at all.’

  ‘We are loyal companions,’ Telorast said. ‘We will stand by you no matter what horrible end you come to.’

  ‘We’ll guard your torn-up body fo
r eternity,’ Curdle added, ‘or at least until someone else comes along—’

  ‘Unless it’s Edgewalker.’

  ‘Well, that goes without saying, Telorast,’ Curdle said. ‘We don’t like him.’

  ‘Or the Hounds.’

  ‘Of course—’

  ‘Or Shadowthrone, or Cotillion, or an Aptorian, or one of those—’

  ‘All right!’ Curdle shrieked.

  ‘I will escort you,’ Apsalar said, ‘to a gate. Whereupon you may leave this realm, since that seems to be your desire. In all probability, you will then find yourselves walking through Hood’s Gate, which would be a mercy to everyone, except perhaps Hood himself.’

  ‘She doesn’t like us,’ Curdle moaned.

  ‘Don’t say it out loud,’ Telorast snapped, ‘or she’ll actually realize it. Right now she’s not sure, and that’s good for us, Curdle.’

  ‘Not sure? Are you deaf? She just insulted us!’

  ‘That doesn’t mean she doesn’t like us. Not necessarily. Irritated with us, maybe, but then, we irritate everyone. Or, rather, you irritate everyone, Curdle. Because you’re so unreliable.’

  ‘I’m not always unreliable, Telorast.’

  ‘Come along,’ Apsalar said, walking towards the far portal. ‘I have things to do this night.’

  ‘But what about these bodies?’ Curdle demanded.

  ‘They stay here, obviously.’ She turned and faced the two shades. ‘Either follow me, or don’t. It’s up to you.’

  ‘But we liked those bodies—’

  ‘It’s all right, Curdle,’ Telorast said in a soothing tone. ‘We’ll find others.’

  Apsalar shot Telorast a glance, bemused by the comment, then she set off, striding into the narrow passageway.

  The two ghosts scurried and flitted after her.

  The basin’s level floor was a crazed latticework of cracks, the clay silts of the old lake dried by decades of sun and heat. Wind and sands had polished the surface so that it gleamed in the moonlight, like tiles of silver. A deep-sunk well, encircled by a low wall of bricks, marked the centre of the lake-bed.