House of Sand and Secrets (36 page)

Isidro laughs in derision. “Not as much as you seem to regret yours.”

“I regret nothing,” I say. “Nothing about that, at the very least.”

“And yet you’ve not once asked about him.”

“What good would it do to ask after a corpse?” I ask bitterly. “Am I to ask what was inscribed on his stone, if the rain fell or the sun shone, how many mourners you had to hire?”

Isidro frowns. Finally he steps into the room and throws the book on the bed. It lands just off my lap. A copy of Traget’s
Melancholy Raven
. My heart seizes, and my face feels frozen and dead.

“Here,” Isidro says. “Jannik can’t walk yet, but he says to read it again, that this time you might even enjoy it.”

I make myself look up at him, too scared to ask him to repeat himself.

“Yew kept his heart beating until the physicians could be called.” The vampire shrugs, and for a moment he looks almost vulnerable, his cold mask slipping. “And so we are both in Yew’s debt.” He snorts, and the flicker of emotion passes. “Or were you hoping that you’d freed yourself?”

I take the book in both hands and hold it close to me. I can see Jannik as I remember him. Head bowed at his desk, tea growing cold at his elbow as he reads this book for the thousandth time. The skew-sharp smile, the fox-fast kisses, black hair and white fingers and all the futures Harun has seen for us. I’m crying. I wipe the tears away and find laughter and relief bubbling together in my chest. My glasshouse brightens, the flowers throwing back their heads to the sun.

“Just for today,” I say to the surprised Isidro, “I will forget to hate you.” I break a sprig of dogleaf free.
Keen interest, and a fixative
. “Go tell Jannik that I’ll read his damn book. And give him this.” I hold up the innocuous little sprig of grey leaves and yellow buds.

Isidro leaves me alone in the room with Jannik’s treasured poetry for company. I brush my hand across the thin creased leather of the cover.

Not that alone. Not alone at all.

The following is the opening chapter from the upcoming novel
Bones Like Bridges
where the lives of three disparate people meet and entwine in ways they could never have expected, changing the face of their city, and their world, for ever.

THE GRINNINGTOMMY

There’s going to
be a burning down on Lander’s Common.

Burning days don’t come along often. Here in the Digs outside MallenIve city - well it’s a bit of entertainment to go watch someone die. Better’n picking over the rubbish the Lams throw out from their fancy houses, at any road. Better still than sitting on my own, feeling all sorry for myself because Prue went an let herself die.

I’m cutting through the Digs to get to The Scrivver’s Hole where Oncle will be throwing back a pint, stone dust still in his hair. The old brick pub is squeezed twixt a pawn shop an a butcher’s; the edges of the bricks crumbled an turning black from the mine smoke. I turn down a dirt street, dodging nilly shit an beggars. The reek of blood an inners from the meat-house almost smothers the sour-porridge smell of the brewery behind the Hole. The sun beats down, high an far away.

Speaking strict, I ain’t allowed in the Scrivver’s Hole ‘til I turn eighteen, but I’m so close that old Lyman never stops me coming in if I’m alone. It’s my pack he won’t put up with.

“Your lot’ll rob me blind and then spit in the beer,” he says, which is mostly true ‘cept for the spitting part. The pack would just drink it. No sense wasting a good high.

But I’m alone - most of the Digs’ pack has already headed down to the common to go watch the burning - so Lyman pays no mind when I slip in to the dark pub. He’s talking to Oncle, who has his back to me.

“The lad’s not going to like it much,” says Lyman, polishing a murky glass with a rag that’s almost as black as the bar counter.

Oncle leans forward, all tired-like. “It’s not that I like it myself. But I’ve no power in this, the law’s on that bastard Lam’s side. Besides,” he says and sighs into his pint. “Might be that he could do a better job with Jek than me or Prue ever did. Lad runs wild, an there’s no denying it.”

“Firm hand is all he needs – Jek.” Lyman’s spotted me, an the conversation stops. Oncle shifts on his stool, nods me over. I’m wary now. Just what the old codger has up his sleeves, a body’s got to wonder.

The bar counter is full of tired old Hobs, backs bent from years working underground. All the scrivvers are up from the mines, cooling their burnt hands on the glass, their iron picks put up for the day. They drink slow, sipping to make the ale last. Oncle’s near the end, so I slip over to him an sit, pretending we’re all chummy-like.

“You gonna buy us one then?” I says.

Oncle just laughs into his bitter. He’s been working longer an longer these days, trying to make his quota in Deep Black. Said he’d try an get me a job working scriv, but there’s more’n more old Hobs laid off recent. The chance of Oncle having a spare bit to buy me a pint is about as likely as our scrounger shitting silver nuggets.

Then he says, “Might do,” which surprises me, cause we play this game all the time an the answer is always no. May be that he’s feeling bad for me ‘cause of Prue. Been less than a week an it still don’t feel real.

Even now she’s gone I can’t call her mam. She never did like it.

Oncle waves the keep back. “A half Rusty Black for the lad - on second thoughts, make it a pint, Lyman.”

Lyman lifts an eyebrow, well he only has one – a huge thing that crawls over his eyes like a windle-grub. Still, he pours me a bitter an pushes the glass over to me.

The faint tang of scriv an hops wraps round my face, heady as magic, before I take a sip.

Scriv is what gives the Lams their power - what they use to tap their magic, an it‘s more precious than air. It’s what they use to protect the city from the Mekekana and the like. So we owe the bastards at least that much – without them we’d have been churned under iron wheels a long time ago. So we mine their scriv an clean their houses an say yes-sir, no-sir, whatever-you-say-sir. An in return, they get all addled on scriv and keep the city mostly safe.

There’s hardly more than a grain or two of scriv powder in a bitter - least-wise, not in Hob-bitter - but it’s enough that I can feel it prickling my skin. The rush shivers over me. I close my eyes for a moment an remember why it is I came here in the first place. “They caught a bat down the Wend, was still feeding when they found it.” I stick my tongue in the creamy foam.

We all knew there was a feral vamp somewhere, drinking the little Hoblings dry. All those small corpses, paled an empty, turning up on the Wend-side heaps while the mothers cried an sobbed so hard that even we packs didn’t bother them none.

First time in a long while there’s been a vamp breaking MallenIve law and feeding off’ve anything more than a knacker yard nilly. Don’t think no one believed it at first, but there’s no explaining those bite marks away. I saw one of the bodies – found it, in fact, an had to chase the jackals away from their feasting. It was still easy enough to see where the bat had gone an torn the poor mite’s throat out.

Still an all, it took the sharif long enough to go after the damn thing. Typical of them police-bastards. Course it was only so long before the bat moved on to better feeding grounds an got the Gris-damned Lammers involved. The Hob-council had to send sharif packs in to hunt it down before things got worse.

I heard Marlon said they took so long ‘cause no-one believed a bat would be dumb enough to start hunting here, so close to MallenIve. Once, long ago, when I was still playing second to that damn Hob, Marlon told me there’s tame bats in MallenIve proper, but I don’t believe a word that bastard says no more.

Vampires are lower even than street dogs, an there’s no way I’m gonna believe that MallenIve’s Lams let them walk the street just like they was people. Not when the buggers drink blood an all that crap. Besides, Marlon will tell anyone anything long as he has their attention.

“They gonna burn it?” Oncle says an he tears his attention from his pint to peer side-long at me.

“Looks like. They’re setting up a stake on Lander’s.” I drink a little more, letting the scriv settle strong in my veins. I feel like I could take on Marlon’s Wend pack with one hand tied an smash that shite bastard down into the ground so hard he won’t see straight for a month. Ah now, there’s a dream to relish. “Was thinking you might want to go see it.”

“Hmm.” Oncle drains the last of his bitter. “Drink up smart, before we go an miss the whole deal.”

Looks like it’s a good day for me – a free drink an a bit of entertainment. It’s the best day I had since Prue died, anyway. I drink quick even though I’ve no head for scriv an follow Oncle out into the last of the sunshine, my mind wobbly an too big for my skull.

By the time we reach Lander’s Common, the sharif have already built a pyramid stake; black saplings stripped bare an lashed into place with scraps of red silk ribbon. A crowd is gathering – word spreads fast down our way - an the working-ladies have even come out from their dark rooms in their thin slips an petticoats.

We’re all waiting; burned darkest brown by the desert sun, eyes squinted, sharp ears ready. As usual down our way, everyone looks too thin an tired; the Wend Hoblings with their pot bellies an their woeful faces, my own pack lean and sharp. Even the older Hobs are hunger-stunted, kept like this by the damned Lammers.

I keep a sharp eye for Marlon or any of his scavs, but a few of my own see me an nod; let me know it’s all clear - that Marlon’s keeping to his side of the common. Good. Last thing I need is an out an out war twixt the two of us. Best we just keep skirting each other, the way the blasted magicless Mekekana in their iron ships do with the Lammers.

I’m a good head taller than most Hobs but I still want a decent view, so me an Oncle push through right to the front where the sharif have the bat tight in iron. Those chains must burn the fucker’s skin something awful. The sharif hold the ends of the chains, hands carefully bound in leather strips so that the iron don’t touch them.

I’m right near the front now. The bat is close to my height; just a little taller than the sharif around it. It’s frightened, crying gobbets of blood. It looks almost like a Hob, only white as chalk dust and the skin on its face already blistering in the late noon sun. Damn thing’s not like I was expecting. I thought it would look like a beast, all hungry-like, but it’s thin and shaking, an its black hair hangs in its face like it were trying to hide.

“Well now, would you look at that,” says Oncle. “It’s not even full grown.”

It does look young, but then I’ve never seen one up close-like, so I take Oncle’s word on it. Best I can tell is that it’s not all that much younger than me - may be just seen its sixteenth year. Then again - with bats, who knows right anyway?

The nearest sharif strikes it across the face with a length of iron chain, an the crowd whistles. The bat raises its white face. It’s stopped crying. May be that it realises how useless its tears are here. Instead it shivers; shivers so hard I think it’s gonna shiver right out of its skin. You never think of them wearing clothes an boots - they’re just tales to scare children - but the bat is in a neat suit; a worn one with the knees darned an the sleeves an trousers too short. The bat’s white ankles an bony wrists are on display, an there’re red weals where the iron touched it.

The beer sits strange in my belly. I’ve done a bit of work with Oncle’s pick before, an I know just how much iron hurts. I almost feel kinda bad for the damn bat.

“Please,” it says when the sharif light their torches. We fall back a little from the heat.

The crowd goes still, an the bat knows. I can see on its face it understands - there’s no-one gonna feel sorry for it, child or no. It killed their babes an it understands that much at least. We Hobs don’t take kind to those that hurt our own. It tries to curl into a ball, but the sharif just kick it an drag it up to the stake, pulling the chains tight.

It’s gibbering now, calling for its mam. But all we do is watch as the torches are put to the dry grass an kindle-sticks.

Black smoke an screams pour over Lander’s Common, an tonight they’ll be getting high down on the Wend. Celebrating. The air smells of wood ash an pork, almost heavy enough to drown out the reeking shite stench from the Lam-heaps. The winds turn, blow the smell up the hillside to where MallenIve proper squats with its spires an gables. I hope the fuckers up there choke on it. This far from the city, I can just make out the nearest of the seven thin bell towers the Lams call the Widows.

“A bat that young, means it’ll have a dam out there,” Oncle says, as the fire light bounces across the faces of the crowd. “Stupid bint, letting its young go off hunting like that.” He shakes his head. “Come on, Jek, we’d best leave ‘fore the crowd turns ugly.”

He’s in a rush to get home. This last week he hasn’t wanted to spend much time in the house. Fair enough – neither have I. It’s too damned empty, for starters.

* * *

We trip through
the Digs, taking the long route back to ours. It’s best I don’t cut through Marlon’s territory, even though he’s probably up on the Common, spitting in the ashes. He runs Wend with an iron hand, an he’ll burn anyone what crosses him. Far as he thinks, the Wend brats are his own to do with what he wants. He’s not the forgiving sort neither, an he took my move to running the Digs pack like a slap to the face.

The Digs are quiet, the little sandy roads bare. No sign of anyone ‘fore we turn up the low hill to where Oncle’s hut leans in the shade of a cone-tree.

Most of the houses down this way are built of whatever junk we can get off the Lam-filth heaps - the crap that the Lammers cart here, as far from their precious city as possible. But Oncle’s a dab hand with stone an bone, so his hut, while it might be all stolen planks an broken brick, is one of the biggest – two rooms; one for us, one for the pig. The old scrounger raises his snout when we come in. He’s been rooting in the filth an his whiskered face is red with mud.