Commandment (12 page)

T
HE CRUSTY SHUTTER CRACKED OPEN, AND THE VISITOR WAS CONFRONTED BY
an almond-shaped eye adumbrated in faint lighting.

“Who comes calling at this hour?” a voice hacked through the slit. The portal itself was truly antediluvian, for it could have been a veritable plank from the hull of Moses’ famed boat.

“I am called Torkoth,” the visitor announced. In response, the eye darted around, assessing if he was alone.

“You traipse the lanes in this rain?”

“I have need of your aid.” The traveler panted impatiently.

“Return in the morrow.” The eye squinted. “The bells of Vesper will toll anon, and you’d best be safely in your secure home.”

The visitor hoisted a blanket-swathed load that he cradled in his arms. “The need is desperate. If I must brave the streets after sunset, so be it. I’m prepared to stand here all night if need be, pounding until my fist is brayed to ash.”

“Reveal your face,” the doorkeeper petitioned.

The visitor drew back a corner of his cowl, allowing his left cheek to shimmer in the fading sunlight. The cloak receded enough to suggest the contours of his ear.

“A fellow Istani! Why hamstring yourself under such a pall of suspicion? Welcome, brother; our doors swing wide for you.”

The shutter slammed closed and the banded portal creaked open. The visitor was greeted by an Istani, evident by the telltale aquamarine tint to his skin. His age was betrayed as much by his thinning hair as by his stooped posture. Interestingly, his chin was colored by a burgundy stain. He was encumbered by several layers of robes.

The vestibule itself was snug and enveloped with soft lighting from numerous deliquescing candles. Torkoth, supporting his load in both arms, cleared the threshold. A final flaw ruffled his cloak.

“Saints preserve us!” The Istani quickly pushed the door closed as if the wind was an enemy vying to enter. “Boreas battles our gates!”

“Boreas?” Torkoth asked. Although a sofa was at hand to rest his load, he maintained a firm grip on the bundle.

“The north wind. He and I are bitter enemies. He clamors loudest in times of tragedy.” The Istani momentarily turned to bolt down the gate. While his back was turned, Torkoth completely lowered his cowl.

“Brace yourself,” Torkoth warned. The Istani turned back to face the visitor and stiffened with fright. All color drained from his complexion before the Half-man’s wild appearance.

“The Trojan horse!” the Istani moaned.

“What?” Torkoth was taken back by the reference.

“What a cruel guise! That I should invite in a lame dog that turns into Cerebrus! Be you an advance scout sent up from Erebus? Oh, what cruel machinations it breeds! I am Pythia. I tell you my name so it may haunt your dreams after my untimely end.”

“Pythia, I’m no monster, only a Half-man. Please forgive the deception, but the situation is dire.”

The Istani composed himself and breathed easier. He even patted his chest as if to reassure his heart or to kick-start it.

Torkoth raised the bundle that he supported in one arm. A small face peeked from the folds.

“Who have we here?” Pythia’s tone pitched with interest.

“This is Sarah, a street urchin. I made her acquaintance a few days past. Today I found her in a delirious state, covered in excrement. At first I assumed that the feces were from a dog she befriended, but she has remained in a trance throughout the tolls. My concern has grown through the day.” He looked out a window into the ebbing daylight. “It now has enough muscle to pin the sun to the earth.”

“Why did you come here?” Pythia seemed puzzled.

“I understand that you are physicians.”

“Physicians? What leads you to believe so?”

“Magani mentioned that…”

“Magani!” Pythia interrupted. “When did you two cross paths?”

“A handful of nights past. He paid a visit to the Goblin Knight Inn the night of the star fall.”

“So that’s where he flitted off to!” Pythia’s eyes clouded over like he was recalling a remote dream. He then snapped out of his reflections. “He left in such a hurry, and so tight-lipped to boot! He bolted off with that damn staff knocking open doors. To think that a man of such caliber could be seduced by that wayward inn! What were we speaking on?”

“That you are physicians.” Torkoth shifted impatiently.

“We at Chiron’s Cradle don’t wear such vestments.” Pythia then turned his attention to Sarah. “But let’s have a look-see.”

The child’s face was shriveled, as if she were melting into the covers. Her dull eyes stared out from sunken orbs.

“Oh, dear…” Pythia gasped.

“So you can understand my concern,” Torkoth stated.

“Come, we will attend to her.” Pythia turned and led the visitor through the vestibule. “We will have to place her in isolation at first, until we rule out some contagion. You did mention she was a street rat, no?”

Torkoth nodded.

“Then she’s a prime target.”

They entered an inner court, an area devoted to gardens. An arcade hemmed in the court on all sides, offering access to other wings of the edifice. Rather than take this peripheral route, Pythia crossed into the court by means of a cobblestone path.

The court’s centerpiece was the statue of a bearded man bearing an object cupped in one arm. It appeared to be a lyre. Creeping ivy clung steadfastly to his legs. There was so much of the vegetation that he appeared to be stepping out of a bush. The gentle gardens were arranged to encircle the central figure.

“This edifice resembled a church from without,” Torkoth mentioned in tow.

“It is.”

“There are many churches in the Forum, but what class of order is
Chiron’s Cradle
?” Torkoth asked.

“It’s a scion of the diocese, a bastard one at that.” Pythia sighed. “It doesn’t feel like a church.”

“Amen to that!” Pythia petitioned.

They drew close enough to the statue to reveal that it was not simply a normal Human. While he was by all respect a man from the front, the trunk and rear haunches of a horse grew out from his rear. This feature was largely obfuscated by a bolus of ivy. Furthermore, he was not bearing a lyre, but a tablet.

“If you be clergy, where are your vestments?” Torkoth pried. Pythia paused a spitting distance away from the hybrid man-horse. He wheeled to face the Half-man.

“Display your tongue!” he ordered.

“What?” Torkoth looked taken aback.

“You have one good ear, no?” Pythia pointed to Torkoth’s normal left ear. “Then you heard me. Out with it!”

Torkoth stuck his tongue out and the curator leaned in to vet it closely.

“Fine!” Pythia conceded after a moment.

“What was the meaning of that?” Torkoth asked.

“You were asking so many questions that I surmised you were a spy sent from the diocese. It wouldn’t be beneath their dignity to want to gloat over our misfortune.”

“But why the inspection? Are they missing tongues?”

“No, it’s that they have too many! I suppose it’s from forever kissing the sword of intolerance—their tongues are cleaved. With those tongues they praise our Lord, and with those same tongues they curse mankind, who was made in his image. How could this be without a forked tongue? What were we speaking of?”

“The fate of your vestments.” Torkoth informed him.

“Ah! We were defrocked by the Presbytery. The garments were burned, up in smoke they went—with our faith.”

“Why the excommunication?”

“As you might infer from my rant, there was a philosophical divide. We dared to believe that you couldn’t love the dead but abhor the living. That’s heresy, you know. So we founded Chiron’s Cradle.”

“Who is Chiron?”

“The gentle and wise centaur.” Pythia lanced a finger toward the statue.

“That’s a centaur? That race is generally depicted slightly differently.” Torkoth blinked in surprise.

“Chiron is unlike others of his blood, for he is more of man. He was the original
Half-man
, I suppose. While all of his kinsmen were out raising bedlam, drinking, whoring, and ruining weddings, he was studying the healing arts. It is said he was even schooled by Asclepius, god of medicine.”

“So then your order
does
embrace medicine after all.”

“We camp on a lonely hill where the road of medicine dwindles off. Chiron’s Cradle is a hospice, and if there is a faith here, it is one to honor
lost causes
. Try selling that idea to the calcified diocese.”

Entering the rear arcade, they were presented with several arches leading into adjacent rooms. Cots crammed the quarters—every single bed was occupied.

“They are all lost causes?” Torkoth could see a score of huddled figures from his single vantage point alone. All looked to be fading into thin air.

“Yes, such is the sign of our time.”

An attendant emerged from the shadows. He too was an Istani. Although much younger than Pythia, he was etiolated with stress.

“Prepare the green chamber,” Pythia addressed him. “We have a new patient.”

“The green chamber? Then where will we put the provisions?”

“Store them in the hall.”

“Of course, Pythia.” The attendant failed to mask a frazzled look of defeat. He hustled off diligently through a door at the end of the arcade.

“You have to clean out the pantry to accommodate Sarah?” Torkoth asked.

“It’s no fuss. There isn’t much food anyway.”

“I see that you operate on a shoestring budget.”

Pythia looked up and exhaled deeply. “I suppose it’s proverbial, that our futures are indeed written in the stars.”

“How so?”

“That star fall of days past started the deluge. The destitute, the lame, the stricken—all have assailed our doors. Our last spooked investor just pulled out, so the coffer’s run dry.”

No sooner had the curator quieted than the attendant emerged from the pantry carrying stacked crates. He made several rounds, distributing the cargo in the principal arcade. Pythia hadn’t embellished the truth of their scant stores, for only a minute later the attendant returned, presumably after clearing out the entire pantry for Sarah’s use. He relieved Torkoth of the girl and whisked her off to the chamber.

“Wait here; we’ll see to her,” Pythia cautioned him and followed the attendant into the green room. The door closed, sealing off view of the activities within.

Biding his time, Torkoth wandered down the arcade and paused briefly at an arch. Within, nearly a dozen motley figures clogged a room no larger than three paces on end. They were a destitute lot. Some snored, some sobbed and a few cringed at their bleak fate. It seemed that they had arrived carrying all their earthly possessions; suitcases served as pillows and coats as blankets. There were even cages containing rabbits and chickens. One Istani garbed in a green-and-yellow chasuble attended to the stricken flock. His present chore was disagreeable—he was picking out larvae from between the toes of one old codger.

Torkoth turned away, as if the very sight within was too much to bear. A nearby statue sparked his interest. It was a life-sized youth, and the bronze form had been wrought to unnaturally accentuate his musculature. His right arm was poised as if he was holding an unseen object at arm’s length. Numerous necklaces and charms of all varieties were draped over his forearm. Attuned to the misery of the hospice at large, the once comely lad’s face was effaced with a gash.

A
 
ROAR JARRED
L
AKIF FROM HER STEWING
. T
HE
L
EVIATHAN WAS HURLING
past somewhere nearby. Few other pedestrians were around. She had no idea how long she had meandered in a dejected mood.

The sun was crashing down toward the western horizon of Earth Doom. This meant that she must have been wandering in a funk for the better part of the afternoon, although it seemed much shorter. She had been so sullen that she hadn’t heard the tolls of None, which usually snap her awake.

She would need to secure lodgings for the night at once. She looked around, aligning her mental compass. It was difficult to gauge her surroundings, as all the edifices looked identical. She was mildly surprised to note that some of the structures had a familiar face to them.

She had the presentiment that she was in the environs of the Goblin Knight Inn! Given her idle roaming throughout the day, it seemed highly unlikely she would find herself back at her former headquarters. Within the byzantine district, what were the odds of such an occurrence? Furthermore, how could she have crossed the distance? The Fourth Circle Station seemed leagues from its eastern neighbor.

But it wasn’t long before she was certain of her bearings. The mammoth tower loomed ahead in the dusk. Her return hadn’t been consciously planned; it was the result of extreme coincidence.

Faced with the prospect of returning to the tower, she equivocated. The Half-man could very well still be a guest. If he saw her check in with her rucksack, she would have some awkward explaining to do. There were surely other inns in the area, although she was hard-pressed to name a single one.

As she loitered, a bracing gust surged down the avenue. A few weather-beaten travelers rushed by. Much of her hair had frozen stiff from the bucket water. Lakif pulled up her collar and plunged both hands into her pockets. Within, she felt the cold talents. She counted the coins with her fingers.

Three.

“Easy come, easy go,” she sighed and set off toward the tower. It could be argued that the Acaanan was in no mood to scout out a fresh inn for the evening and thus acquiesced to the familiar haunt; a default choice, so to speak. Or perhaps it was to honor an agreement. Lakif had been battling her conscious all day at having left Torkoth in the lurch. The windfall from the blacksmith would erase the arrears that marred her good name and at least there would be some silver lining to the day. Furthermore, she didn’t worry much about the Kulthean who was snooping around in the morning. He surely must have realized the Acaanan’s trail was cold and moved on.

Gloom was encroaching on the lane when she limped back through the outer gates. The majestic tree inaugurated a common room filled with the usual colorful spectrum of patrons. Lakif’s sour mood preempted any of her usual joys, such as the obligatory people-watching. Vesper was about twenty minutes away, and a hardy crowd had gathered. She paid them absolutely no heed as she marched through. So little, in fact, that she failed to notice a solitary patron take unusual notice of her entrance.