The Legend of El Shashi (8 page)

But … the price! What price?

As
a decision crystallised in my mind I perceived Jyla’s flawless visage once more, now unmasked, mocking my terror. I cringed. The Honoria Telmak had once smiled such a smile. She too had known my very thoughts, sensing my revulsion as she laid out the terms of my apology to Rubiny, taking pleasure in the death-grip she wielded over life and limb.

“Drink.”

I had anna ago tipped the scales with the coin of my betrayal. This bitter cup was my just portion and recompense. How could I resist? I touched the cool metal to my lips and uncaring, quaffed its whole contents.

Darkness slammed across my vision.

*  *  *  *

“Just leave them be, stranger,” Lurgo’s snarled above me. “Just git.”

I groaned, wanting to shake my head to clear it, but fearing I should aggravate what was already a splitting headache. I must have blacked out, too, and fallen from the platform. I was fortunate not to have killed myself.

Alila’s foot
twitched a handspan from my face. I looked along the length of her body to Farmer Lak, who with tears streaming down his cheeks, murmuring his love, stroked his dying daughter’s hair. The mother cradled Alila’s head in her lap, her neck curving down to droop her long auburn hair over the child even as a desolate willow weeps over a wind-still pond.

Expecting grief’s clenched fist, I
recognised instead a wild hope swelling in my breast. My legs were ribbons, powerless to hold any weight, yet I had a crazy urge to be sprinting ahead of the storm with my burnoose billowing about my body … for, mark my words, storm it was. There was a great beast unchained in my mind. It was raw power. It was compassion. It exerted a savage, wordless dominion over my quath.

I scrambled forward on hands and knees, throwing off Lurgo’s restraining arms as though he were week-old babe. My mouth worked. I wanted to tell them to trust me, but found myself frothing like a rabid salcat.

The moment I touched Alila’s back, right up near her wounds, lightning struck from deep within my gut, through my outstretched arm, and speared into her small body.

“Unnnhh!”

I was screaming, crying, laughing, I know not. Jyla! To unleash the promised power was a chalice of commingled pleasure, terror, and agony.

This
was the makh! This was the rising of the Wurm!

The pitchfork I extracted with a single,
fierce draw of my arm, and thrust it into Lurgo’s quailing grasp. “Hold this.”

Working by instinct rather than knowledge, I smoothed the broken places, willing flesh and bone and quoph to return to their natural arrangements. I poured into Alila everything that I had. Too quick!
Spasms cased her limbs; her body jerked and her head struck the floor. One mite more and I would have snuffed out her life.

‘Learn greater care, Arlak,
’ Janos had admonished me over and over, despairing of teaching me the ways of the forge. ‘The metal is malleable but you must strike cleanly. Concentrate on what you want it to become. The hammer will respond to your will.’

“
Be still, hands,” I commanded myself, closing my eyes.

“
Beat gently, little heart.” This to Alila.

The great barn was as silent as death. I let my touch rest a moment longer upon her wounds. It felt right. I jerked my hands back to my sides.

But see now: Farmer Lak, who had begun to growl a curse, instead caught his breath in wonder.

The little girl gave a small cough. Then another.

Her thin chest heaved.

Her dark eyes flickered over us in bewilderment.

Then Alila sat up suddenly, unshadowed and bright of eye, and exclaimed, “Father? Father? Why are you crying?”

*  *  *  *

That eventide, after the makh of darkness, I stole away with the clothes on my back and nought of the coin Farmer Lak sought to pay me, save a fair wage for my labours on the lyomhouse. The farmer would understand. He would be grateful–for none of them could grasp the miracle that had transpired, least of all I, Arlak Sorlakson. They trusted Mata; they had their beliefs. I had nought.

Truly told, it was fear that lengthened my stride that night. Fear, and
a bitter self-loathing as broad as the mountainous backbone of Roymere herself. Had I dared hope Jyla’s bequest would come to nought? Was Janos’ death a bad dream? Were my anna of madness but some aberration? Nay. This I knew: Jyla the Sorceress had taken command of my life and launched me as from a mountaintop into the abyssal unknown. A terrible, latent power had been awakened within me, a power which spoke to my darkest fears. I was Arlak no longer. I was a freak. A monster.

Was my fate thus written?
‘Double my power. Double your forfeit. I need you to be selfish, Arlak.’ Ah, her words rang clarion-clear in the halls of my memory! But their meaning was as far beyond my understanding as the stars lie beyond the skies. Should my deeds feed her Wurm?

No!

I lurched onward.

Never!

Gramyre in Elbarath, 1
st
Joinday of Harvest, Anna Roak 1360

By middle Youngsun I grew sore weary of bedding down beneath prickly black-hedges and frequenting the squalid alleyways of nameless towns where men more desperate than I hunted in packs. One night a band of thieves beat me senseless. They stole nought but my tattered blanket and worn-out boots. I determined thereafter to find honest employ in Gramyre, the southernmost Elbarath town, which overlooked the lazy Nugar River’s brown expanse. This was a wet, well-forested region, renowned for its lumber and smooth golden ale.

But there was no open-armed welcome for foreigners.

All the work I could find was mucking out stables or drudging in rough taverns. It paid a pittance and I slaved every day including Sayth, without rest. Everywhere I turned I met the raised palm of rejection, ere a word slipped from my mouth.

A whole season I scraped for but seventy brass terls. My stomach gnawed with hunger. But then a moment’s good fortune netted me a whole ukal, glinting in a stinking midden. With these riches I bought a pair of loose, striped breecs, simple workman’s sandals, a tasselled rumik pullover with a deep hood that dragged almost to my knees, and one invaluable makh in the pumphouse with a scrap of lye soap that, judging by the embedded hairs, had recently seen service on the shopkeeper’s pet lumdog. I scrubbed. Scraped. Shaved my unruly beard. And thus fortified, proceeded to sell myself as
a bondservant to a local pleasure house.

Ah, the Eldrik might recoil in horror, but in those days in the Umarik Fiefdoms, indenturing oneself was no dishonour for a young, unattached man. In this way he might learn the manners and graces benefiting his station, and the skills for beautifying and cosseting women. With hard work and a slice of good fortune, in a few anna he might rise through the ranks and be picked for
the Matabond to a woman of substance. And thence he might eschew the daily draught called uliktak, the close-guarded secret of these brothels, which keeps his seed unfruitful.

And be Matabound? I spat upon the thought. Money was my goal. That meant I had to become sought after without attracting the jealous plotting of the other men. A handsome escort might make a handsome living. What better life could a man desire?

A chill of grephe tainted my quoph every time I honed this line of reasoning in my mind. But I ignored it like a wicked father ignoring his children’s petitions. Are not quathly avarice, and ambition moreover, qualities most virtuous and masculine? Who would employ a laggard, who eats up more profit than he ever makes? I convinced myself that Jyla was gone. Buried. Hundreds of leagues removed. That she had no hold on me, nor upon my life. But even so my attitude stank of cowardice, of a brand of desperation, of lies hiding lies.

Perhaps it was s
afest not to dwell on the past.

This thought unexpectedly brought a proverb of Janos’ to my mind. Well I remember it, for every time I complained at another
history lesson, he would say, ‘Arlak, to forget the past is to forget who we are.’

Sometimes I wish
ed for less wisdom and more ignorance.

And what good fort
une had ever smiled upon me? Had Mata not stolen all I loved in the world? And cast me destitute into the Fiefdoms with a curse upon my head? A fine reward I had reaped for following Her ways!

Two seasons of meticulous work and faultless grooming won me from the scullery to the bathhouse. Here my task was to tend the fires beneath the great brass tubs where
the women bathed. I had to keep my eyes downcast at all times–one glance above the knee earned me six strokes of the lash and three weeks scrubbing every floor in the place.

But the day after I returned to the bathhouse, the housemaster picked me out.

“Torri is the name,” he whispered, pushing me through the corridors. “Her mother paid
twenty
ukals to the mistress.” The housemaster shoved me into a room. “Get changed. Here’s your rumik. Put it on. Careful, or I’ll have your hide striped till I see bone and you’ll be shovelling dung for the rest of your miserable life. Slippers–I’ll get those. And perfume.”

He banged the door shut as I fell to changing into the short rumi
k. It was similar to the Roymerian rumik, only the fine, creamy linen was cut shorter to mid-thigh and revealed more of the chest between the broad double lapels. Making for a more toothsome display, I reflected sourly. Always remember the customer.

“You will do the house honour. Never breathe a word to anyone.”

I glanced at him.

“Not like that. Tie the belt like this.” The housemaster corrected my knot impatiently, then lowered his voice. “She’s ugly as a porker, understand? But that fool Lurak burned all the costumes.
Hajik Hounds! This season’s been hard on us all.” He sighed. “None of the other houses would have her, nor our consorts.”

Lucky me, s
o I earned the short end? I made a face in the mirror.

“Guard your thoughts
!” he snapped.

I lowered my head, smarting. Right he was.

“You don’t have a reputation to consider,” he continued, yanking the broad collar of my rumik straight, “but you’ve shown ability and you kept your own counsel over the Gaerlak affair. I’ve been watching. Mark my words, this Honoria would become our patroness–she has wealth enough. But if word were to spread? Disaster.”

That an unwritten prejudice against ugliness kept many women from the gates of these pleasure houses, I had no doubt. One had but to hear the way the consorts talked
–empty-headed, preening cockatoos to a man. Money smoothed many a path. But how ancient was the belief that ugliness in a woman is mark of a curse, which could just as readily be conveyed to others? What ulule did not know a dozen tales centred on the unfortunate, unsightly hag who snatches bad children from hearth and home at the height of Alldark Week’s foulness? Grimalde, some call her, or Nethella, the Great Hag of the underworld called Nethe. An icon of Umarik prejudice, Janos had called her during one of his interminable philosophical asides.

Then, I laughed. But my recent experience was a lamp new and bright. The housemaster’s attitude rankled. ‘Ugly as a porker’ was no civil appellation, no way to describe any woman
who walked Mata’s good earth. I should have attended more closely to Janos. Better still, I should grant this woman the chance she had been refused elsewhere.

Had I not received a second chance at life?

“I’ll do it,” I declared.

“Good!” The housemaster clapped my shoulder heartily.

*  *  *  *

“Thank you.”

At Torri’s low whisper in the boudoir’s darkness, I wondered how to respond. Should I attempt a kindly speech? Blurt forth the truth, that to me she represented no more than a chance at advancement in my bond-house? Twenty ukals for intimate speech, a massage, and nought else! I scarce believed it myself. But then … during our tryst I had touched the puckered scars on the back of her neck, and upon her right arm and flank. Burns, I imagined. Disfiguring burns splashed across her flesh. Why then choose massage? Knowing my hands must touch that which others most hated and she herself hated too?

I stared upwards
into the gloom, unseeing.

Not only was the boudoir heavily screened to exclude any hint of light, but Torri
wore a stagesmith’s mask that covered her whole face save eyes and mouth. Her rumiaflower perfume, mingled with the heady scent of Sulian incense slowly charring and curling on a coal brazier, made me feel warm and lethargic.

She tried again, “Thank you for being
… willing.”

“
Nonsense,” I grated, and had to clear my throat. “I’m grateful, Honoria, for your generosity, and confess I–”

“Did my mother pay you that well?”

“Larathi to that!” I snorted, before I could stop myself.

I cringed. Profanity was not in the script! Torri could have me lashed, or worse
… I lay stiff as a length of timber in the darkness, my heart leaping about in my throat like a frisky jatha overfed upon Springtide-ripe herikbane. She quivered from head to toe. Any moment, I imagined, she would leap off the bed in a screaming rage and I’d lose all I had schemed so patiently to gain … but what was this? A sound–a sob? Was she weep … no! Laughter! Praise Mata, she was giggling merrily at my embarrassment.

Sheer relief set me chuckling too. In a moment we had each other rolling. Torri’s anger melted, washed away in a cleansing stream. When last had she laughed? And I? I could not
even remember. My diaphragm heaved, my lungs labouring as if to release a gale, yet the sound of my own mirth distressed me.

The loneliness, since Janos died, had been crushing.

I felt absurdly grateful toward her.

Then I wept.

Torri stroked my brow for the longest time. At last I found peace enough to master my emotions. Shame dried my tears.

She said lightly, “Was it that bad, Arlak?”

“Nought of your doing, honoured one,” I returned, roughly. ‘Less harsh of tone, Arlak,’ I told myself. And aloud, “I’m sorry. You could not imagine what I’ve been through. You should go.”

“I purchased a whole night’s company.”

I raised my hand to stroke her hair. “Did you?”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Just
–it reminds me.” She sighed, and I felt her shift away on the fine sallinen sheets. “You have been so nice … I would not have that change.”

I fished for a suitable rejoinder, but found only silence.

She added bitterly, “You wouldn’t understand the world of a scarred woman, Arlak–you’re too beautiful to ever understand.”

Has beauty its own curse
, the converse to the curse of ugliness, I wondered? Where did pride in one’s natural gifts spill over into vanity? How rarely had I examined myself in this quoph-searing mirror …

Mata’s truth, had she seen me beforehand? I
knew the women sometimes spied on the consorts before choosing their favourite. But I had thought the housemaster’s demands too sudden … she added, “Do you draw the envy of many? Tell me, how came you to this–this mockery?”

“I feel no mockery in my service,” said I, taut with umbrage.

“I am surely no prize–or did you this for pity’s sake?”

She knew how to rile. I exploded, “In Mata’s name, woman! I had no
choice
.”

That must
have hurt.

“Sorry. I’m sorry.” I stumbled
on, “I’m but a bondservant to this house, Honoria, and a foreigner in this land.”

But her words had stirred up something else. Pity? Ay, and the power to put that pity into action. No natural process or disease I knew of could have produced such a dreadful outcome
. Indeed, why should it remain so?

The power surged forth, shockingly responsive to my
thoughts. Fervent. As if it had been lurking there all along … a latent charge, a river swollen with the seasonal rains of Glooming which sweeps all manner of silt and vegetation before its formidable flow. How facile to shape the commands with the tools of will and empathy. How much more challenging to initiate the questing of my hand.

I felt a jolt. Not quite lightning, this time
–afraid, I had held back at the last instant.

Torri gasped, “Nethespawn!” Her hand leapt to mine.

“What?”

“That
… tingling. What did you do?”

“Nothing.”

She jerked away. “Liar!” Torri must have been checking herself in the darkness, for she cried, “My skin–it’s changed … what in Mata’s name is going on here?”

How many makh had I
not wrestled to convince myself that healing Alila had been a one-off event, that my will did not dangle from the strings of Jyla the puppeteer? Janos would have sneered, ‘Only cowards abdicate responsibility, Arlak.’ These words I remembered from an argument we once had over my failure to diagnose lormix–a type of parasitic fungus–in my jatha. It had led to infections on the neighbouring farm too, which I had initially refused to pay for. Responsibility was another virtue Janos had laboured to instil in me.

Not a personal favourite, I thought with a grimace.

But necessary.

Could it be? Would it rise again at my behest?

If only to pound the truth into my obstinate skull, I reached out again and found Torri’s arm in the darkness.

This time I
proceeded with greater care, allowing my fingertips to trail along delicately and sense the changes as they happened. I had no need of her hiss to confirm what I already knew. To Hajik with doubt! This was real–but suddenly I felt faint, and slumped back upon the pillows to catch my breath.

Mata’s preserve me
–Jyla was right. What power! A simple touch had wrought wholeness. How was this possible?

Torri
stroked her arm as though she could not believe the change so keenly communicated through her fingertips. She examined herself over and over in childlike amazement. “Feel this, Arlak! The skin’s perfect! Can you feel it?”