City of Masks (2 page)

“Nice and fresh,” Marick had told him, before riding off to find a proper hiding place.

A tiny trickle of dread had passed up Garet’s backbone, and the hairs on his neck had trembled. He reined in the horse, a usually placid bay, and tried to determine if the sensation came from a particular direction or was just his usual unease at riding a horse. Then he had found himself on the ground with Tarix looking down at him.

“I . . . was trying to make sure,” he told her. “In case I was wrong.”

Tarix laughed and clapped him on a sore shoulder. “The horse was sure, and I think you might be smarter than a horse, so trust yourself next time and avoid the bruises. Ah, here’s Marick with your mount.”

A younger Bane rode up on a pony, pulling Garet’s protesting horse on a lead. He looked down at his friend and laughed.

“Here’s your horse, Garet. He promises to behave himself if you become a better rider!” The young man threw the reins to Garet and he remounted, calming the animal when it shied away. Set once more in the saddle, he grinned ruefully at Marick.

“It’s easy for you to mock me, but please remember that my experiences with horses have been painful ones.”

Marick laughed again, perhaps remembering their first meeting. Marick had been one of a small party led by Master Mandarack, a Bane of great skill and kindness, who brought Garet back to the Southern city of Shirath to train as a Demonbane.

Though that journey had been both wonderful and terrifying in turns, Garet’s worst memories were of the saddle sores he got from travelling on a horse for the first time in his life.

Sadly, Mandarack had perished months ago, dying to save the city from a terrible new demon which could control others of its kind. The chaos caused by that creature, now known as the Caller Demon, had torn the city apart, putting the Banes, the Duelists, the King, and the Ward Lords at each other’s throats. Those had been desperate times. Garet still bore the scar of a sword thrust through his thigh. Salick, the Gold Sash he felt so strongly about, had a similar scar on one cheek. He did not think it lessened her beauty.

How was she doing with her own new Master, Bandat, he wondered, and was she thinking of him as well?

“Garet,” Tarix called out, “if you’re finished daydreaming, run the circle again!”

He reddened and started off, spurred on by Marick’s hoots and this time successfully getting off the horse before it threw him. Tarix only made him repeat the exercise sixteen more times before dismissing him for the day. As the former Training Master of the Banehall, she could be annoyingly thorough.

After closing the jewel up in its silkstone box to block its horror, Marick walked with him through the outer gates of the First Ward. Garet felt a blessed relief as the lid closed and the box disappeared into one of Marick’s many hidden pockets. Silkstone was the only thing known to block out the demon fear, and it was a great shame that there was so little of it in the city.

They left the horses in the care of the stable workers just within the gates. While the younger Bane joked with the farrier, Garet paused to look up and appreciate the height and width of the city wall. It had protected Shirath for six hundred years, not by keeping demons out, but by working with all the inner walls, ward walls, gates, and barricades to trap the vicious beasts within so that the Banes could corner and kill them. Managing that before the creatures attacked any of Shirath’s citizens was the hard part. It was why a Bane spent most of his time either training or patrolling.

Garet’s eyes traced the curve of the wall. On both the north and south side of the river Ar, the white stone barrier ran in an arc then cut across to close off each half of the city. These half-circles were joined by three graceful bridges, and the whole of it was the most beautiful thing Garet had ever seen.

“If you’re quite finished daydreaming?” Marick said, in a skilled imitation of Tarix.

Garet smiled and pushed him forward. He knew the little Bane meant no disrespect towards his Master, for Marick worshipped her skill and generous nature. Mockery was how Marick met the world, and had been his sword and shield since he was left as a child on the streets of the city of Old Torrick, years before he was brought to Shirath to be a Bane. Since then, he had gained a well-deserved reputation for insults, practical jokes, and creative acts of revenge.

Now he led Garet through the narrow lanes of the First Ward, threading a path between the four-storey tenements and other, smaller buildings. Each structure was white-washed and bright as new paper in the spring sun. Most buildings in the city were as plain as these, for the citizens of Shirath feared to live in a dwelling that was set apart by colour or decoration, believing it could attract a night-hunting demon to their door. They were braver in their choice of clothing, for they arrayed themselves in a myriad of hues. Burning reds, bright yellows, vivid greens, and every other cheerful shade swirled around him. Moving through these mid-day crowds, Garet always felt like he was fording a rainbow.

His own clothes were less colourful, but he wouldn’t have traded them for gold cloth and jewels. A Bane’s purple vest might stand out a bit, as did the color of the sash—Garet’s was green, one level above Marick’s blue and two levels below a Master’s red—but they were worn over a black tunic and grey pants tucked into black, calf-high boots. Add to this his black hair and a skin darker than anyone else in the city, and it was a wonder he didn’t disappear in the sharp shadows cast between buildings. No, he could not match the fantastic garments of even the poorest citizen edging around him, but it was for this somber uniform that people made way, smiling and nodding at the two Banes.

Turning to pass through the funnel of an inside gate, Garet caught a glimpse of a figure even more muted than himself, but the person disappeared before he could get a proper look. Who would wear a heavy gray cloak on a fine day like this, he wondered. Then there came a flash of memory, or at least familiarity. Hadn’t he seen this cloaked figure before, always in a crowded street or square, always disappearing when he turned to look? The thought bit at him, but he let it go when they reached the inner gate and passed into the Palace Plaza.

Marick had been sniffing at the many scents of the city as they walked, shaking his head at some and licking his lips at others. Garet was sure the boy could find his way from Ward to Ward blindfolded and guided by the smell of pastries or privies, but he suspected Marick might have a particular scent, and plan in mind.

Garet laid a firm hand on his young friend’s shoulder and steered him past the temptations of the market stalls and towards the nearest bridge gate.

“But Garet, aren’t you hungry after all those tumbles?” Marick asked. His nose seemed to pull him towards a meat pie cart.

Garet steered harder.

“No, I’m not, but I will be if I have to wait and watch you wheedle a belly full of free food and drink. You know how Master Tarix feels about using our position to beg for such things. Besides, she expects me to be about my duties, and I believe you have a training session after lunch, don’t you?”

Marick twisted a bit, but Garet held firm.

“All right, all right! Let’s get back to the Banehall then, but you know it will be water and cheese and bread—poor fare compared to what I could get us here.”

Whether or not I believe him is beside the point
, Garet told his gurgling stomach, and marched the younger Bane across the East Bridge and into the Banehall Plaza. There was less bustle here, save for on the playing fields, where teams of young men and women hit and kicked a ball back and forth according to rules Garet had yet to understand. Surrounding these fields were low gardens. The trees and bushes were trimmed close to the ground so that a demon would find it difficult to hide. Beyond those gardens stood the Banehall.

Not as imposing as the Palace with its multitude of glass windows and gilded pillars, the Banehall was more practical, a machine built for housing and training Banes. Its centre block was three stories tall, its east and west wings a floor shorter. Nearly three hundred Banes lived here, and Garet could see a constant stream of them coming and going, some Reds and Golds to patrol, some others to communicate with the Palace or the Ward Lords, and a few Greens like Garet going out to train in the fields beyond the wall.

The entrance hall was even more crowded than the streets, but everyone was going in the same direction, called by the luncheon bell. Marick took the lead and found a path through the other Banes, pausing occasionally to jump up and search for his friend, Dorict.

“Over there!” he shouted to Garet, and the Green pushed after him to grab a seat at a bench in the rear of the dining hall. The bowl of bread was half gone, but Dorict had his hand over it, guarding against the depredations of the ever-hungry young Blues sharing the table.

“You’ve had firsts already,” he said to them. “You have to wait for seconds.”

“You didn’t!” one accused.

Marick laughed and told the indignant Bane, “Three things are sure in this world, my fellow Blue: demons will attack, Banes will defend, and Dorict will eat.”

His friend scowled but managed to grab another piece of bread before the rest vanished. Dorict was a heavy lad, though he trained as hard as any other Bane, and muscles were beginning replace the softer bulges in his uniform.

“Did you hear, Garet?” he said around a mouthful of bread. “Another demon this morning. Came as far as the orchards to the southwest. Banes at the logging camp nearby tracked and killed it.”

“Any injuries?” Garet asked. He took advantage of his height to poach a wedge of cheese off the plate the harried servers carried table to table.

“No,” was all Dorict said, eyeing the cheese and calculating his chances.

Marick thumped the table to get his friend’s attention.

“That’s three in three days, isn’t it?”

Dorict nodded and left to follow the server.

Marick leaned back in his chair, looking uncharacteristically thoughtful.

“And that’s the third week we’ve had three or more demons attack.”

Garet bit into the wedge of cheese and grimaced at the sharp taste. Banehall cheese was rarely the best, coming as it did through the generosity of the Ward Lords and the King. Swallowing, he looked at the small Bane.

“Hasn’t this happened before?” he asked.

Marick shook his head and said, “Not since I’ve been here, and from the worried look on the Masters’ faces, I bet it hasn’t happened to them either.”

Garet looked to the dais at the front of the Hall where the thirty or so Masters ate. Not all were there of course. The Reds did many of the city patrols and all of the administrative duties of the Hall. There were only twelve present today, and he saw that their faces were drawn and tired. Branet, the Hallmaster and so marked by a Red Sash trimmed with a black stripe, came stalking in and fixed Garet with a less than friendly eye before moving on to take his place at the centre of the Masters’ table.

“What have you done now?” said a voice behind him, and Garet turned to see Vinir standing there, plate in hand and smiling down at him.

Vinir was Salick’s friend, a year older than Garet and the object of Marick’s undying affection. That much younger Bane straightened up in his chair and brushed a collection of crumbs off his vest.

She shook her head, blonde braids swishing back and forth, and laughed. Marick blushed and smiled when she sat down beside him.

“So Garet, what did you do to anger our stormy Hallmaster?”

Garet shrugged. “Nothing that I know of, but I’m sure to find out. Master Branet isn’t one to let a fault lie forgotten.”

“Those are the truest words ever spoken,” Vinir said. “Yesterday he yelled at me in front of the other Golds for laughing at something Bandat said.”

“If you want, I could . . . ,” Marick said, leaving open the suggestion of whatever devious prank he had in mind for the Hallmaster.

Vinir rubbed his hair, and Marick wiggled like a puppy.

“Don’t you dare, you imp. We’ve enough trouble with all these attacks without you causing an uproar.”

“Is it that bad?” Dorict asked. He had returned with a wedge of cheese in each hand.

“It’s not the number so much as that they happen so close together,” Vinir said. “It doesn’t feel normal, and if it weren’t for the fact that we can still feel the fear they cast, I’d think, you know, the Caller Demon had returned.”

Garet shivered. The Caller was a unique breed of demon, one who could hide its own and other demons’ fear so they could attack without warning. It even had some control over other demons, or so many thought. Such a creature had not been seen in six-hundred years, and its return had almost destroyed the city. Master Mandarack had killed it at the cost of his own life. The thought that another might attack kept Garet from sleep many nights.

After their meal, Garet walked the reluctant Marick right to the door of the largest training room and made sure the slippery Bane joined the others before leaving. Walking back, he shook his head. There was no guarantee Marick wouldn’t slip off again, but he had done his duty and now had others to complete. As he arrived at the door to the smaller training room, Garet heard the dull slap of wooden poles on sandbags. Looking in, he saw a line of young Banes, children really, striking the bags with long poles while a Master supervised.