Tome of the Undergates (27 page)

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Authors: Sam Sykes

BOOK: Tome of the Undergates
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‘What of the creature?’
‘I . . . I was as shocked to see it as anyone! You must believe me!’
‘The frogmen summoned it.’
‘I didn’t know! They never told me! They told me nothing but to attack this ship!’ He gasped, his voice slurring with coppery saliva filling his mouth. His hands were cold as more of his life wept out from the stumps between them. ‘That’s the truth! I’m naught but a pawn in whatever game they were planning. I consorted with no spawn of hell. Rashodd is no blasphemer.’
Denaos’s head swayed slightly, regarding the man. He did not blink, his lips did not move and he gave no indication that he was hearing anything the pirate said. Slowly, he leaned forwards and squinted, as though regarding Rashodd from miles away. Then his eyes widened suddenly, a flicker of indiscernible emotion, fear, shame, perhaps.
‘You’re lying again. Argaol said you would.’
‘I am no—’
‘Hush.’
The blow came more slowly this time; no quick, surgical strike, but an angry, heavy hack. The blade bit halfway through Rashodd’s remaining thumb, inciting a scream that went unheard behind Denaos’s hand. He whimpered, squealed as the digit hung lazily from the joint before the rogue reached down, seized it between his own thumb and forefinger, and twisted.
Rashodd felt his entire insides jerk with the pain, the shock shifting organs about within him. Bile rose behind his teeth, tasting of metallic acid. He muttered something desperately behind his gag and Denaos pressed his hand harder, narrowed his eyes in response.
‘Swallow it.’
He did so, with a choked protest, and lurched as the vile stuff slid back down his gullet. Denaos took his hand away and regarded the pirate carefully, offering no question, no threat beyond a hollow stare. There was no malice dwelling there, no accusation or anger as he had enjoyed with Argaol.
It was the sheer lack of anything in the man’s face that prompted Rashodd to pray.
‘Zamanthras help me,’ the pirate whimpered, ‘believe me, I had nothing to do with the creature. Why would I defend those traitors this long?’
‘Zamanthras does not exist here.’ Denaos shook his head. ‘Tonight, the only people in this cabin are you,’ he pointed with the man’s severed thumb, ‘me,’ he pressed it against his chest, ‘and Silf.’
‘S-Silf?’
‘“Salvation in secrets,”’ the rogue recited, ‘“forgiveness in whispers, absolution in quiescence.”’ He paused. ‘Silf.’
‘The Shadow.’ Rashodd uttered the name without reverence or fear for the God. Such things were reserved for the man before him. Quietly, he tucked his hands into his armpits, shivering. ‘A deity . . . a God for thieves . . . and . . .’ he paused to swallow, ‘murderers.’
‘Murderers,’ Denaos repeated, hollow. A smile, a wistful tug of the lips, creased his face for but a moment. ‘Isn’t that what we all are?’
‘It’s one thing to kill in battle, sir, it’s another entirely to—’
‘It is.’ The rogue nodded quietly, setting his dagger aside. ‘Perhaps that’s how Silf found His flock. Murderers require absolution, don’t they?’ His hand went inside his vest and came out with another knife, shorter, thicker, sawtoothed. ‘Or was He born to serve that need?’
‘You can’t be serious.’ Rashodd gasped at the blade. ‘I’ve told you everything!’
‘You might be lying.’ Denaos shook his head. ‘Silf has seven daughters. This is the second. We’ll meet more of them if you don’t speak.’
‘They . . . they wanted the priest for no good deed, I knew.’ Rashodd spoke with such squeaking swiftness it would have shamed him under other circumstances. ‘They spoke of mothers, queens and names of a Goddess no good Zamanthran has ever heard!’ His lips quivered. ‘Ulbecetonth . . . I am loath to repeat her name, even now. Ulbecetonth is who they worship, who they stole the book for! That’s all I know, I swear!’
Denaos paused, the dagger rigid in his hand. It appeared almost disappointed at being stayed, its sawtoothed grin pulling into a curving frown. Quietly, the tall man looked down, observing his reflection in the metal.
Rashodd allowed himself a brief moment of breath, free of saliva or bile. He was suddenly so cold, feeling as though all his warmth was dripping out of him, caking the insides of his arms. He needed something, a shirt, a blanket, anything to stem the loss of warmth coming out of him. Slowly, as his tormentor was absorbed in his own weapon, his eyes drifted towards the captain’s wardrobe in the far corner. There must be something there, he reasoned, something that would make him warm again, something to wrap about his hands.
‘You say this is all you know.’
There was a change in the rogue’s voice, a subtle inflection indicating thoughtfulness. It was a little thing, Rashodd knew, but enough of an alteration to send his head bobbing violently in a nod.
‘But you said, moments ago, that you knew nothing.’ His eyes lit up suddenly, wide and horrified. ‘You were lying.’
Rashodd was up in an instant, manacles rattling. He saw the dagger, but his eyes were focused on the wardrobe. He had to reach it, he knew, had to find something to stem the blood-loss, had to find something to save what remained of his warmth before this murderer took all of it.
There was a flash of black and Rashodd was upon the floor. The oil lamp swayed violently overhead, jostled. With every swing, it bathed the tall man in shadow, then in light, then in shadow. Every breath, the man was closer without moving. Every blink, the man’s dagger was bigger, brighter, smiling.
The lamp swayed backwards. There was shadow. The man was on top of him, straddling him.
‘No noise,’ he whispered.
The lamp swayed forwards. There was light. The man’s eyes were broad, wide and brimming with tears. The dagger was in his hand, firelight dancing from tooth to tooth.
‘Don’t you scream.’
After an endlessness of hearing waves rumble in the distance, the door finally opened with a whisper. Denaos’s appearance was just as quiet and swift, sliding out of the cabin and easing the door back into place with practised hands.
And there he stood, oblivious to Argaol’s stare, oblivious to anything beyond the knob in his grip and the wood before his eyes. The ship lulled, coaxed by the yawn of a passing wave.
‘How did it go?’ Argaol spoke suddenly, his voice strange and alien to his own ears after so much silence.
‘Fine.’
‘Fine?’
Denaos whirled about with unnerving speed. A smile played across his lips, his eyes were heavy-lidded and sleepy. Argaol cocked a brow; the man appeared more akin to someone who’d been ratting about in a private liquor cabinet than someone doing a job.
‘Rather well, in fact,’ he replied, licking his lips.
‘Ah.’ Argaol nodded, not bothering to hide his suspicion. ‘What did you find out?’
‘Not a blessed lot.’
‘Were you thorough?’
‘Decidedly.’ Denaos raised his hands in a shrug. ‘I’ve a few names, a few theories, but precious little else, I’m afraid. Whatever else you want to know will come from someone other than Rashodd.’
‘Evenhands,’ the captain muttered. He’d been hoping the Lord Emissary’s name wouldn’t come up.
‘There doesn’t seem to be anyone else aboard who might know about such a thing, does there?’ Denaos stalked past him, offering a ginger pat on the shoulder. ‘If you’re intent on finding him, perhaps you can also ferret out a bottle of wine for me. Or rum, if you’ve got it. Bring out the expensive stuff, in any case, I feel like celebrating.’
Argaol lingered by the door as the tall man swaggered down the hall, disappearing around a corner, undoubtedly heading for the mess to join his fellows. Even after he had gone, however, the awkwardness of his presence lingered.
Quietly, Argaol glanced towards the door to his cabin, reaching for the knob.
‘Don’t.’
He looked up with a start. Denaos was at the end of the hall, regarding the captain carefully.
‘Not yet, Captain,’ he warned quietly. ‘Look in there later, if you wish, but don’t do anything now.’
‘What . . .’ Argaol caught his breath. ‘What did you do in there?’
Denaos did not blink. ‘Not much.’
 
Lenk stared at his companion through one eye, the other tucked under a slab of raw meat. Denaos stared back, resisting the urge to look over the young man’s shoulder at the disaster in the ship’s mess.
The rogue saw smashed buckets in the periphery of his vision, dishes shattered, mops broken and even the occasional bandaged appendage reaching out as if begging to be spared from the raging carnage. Denaos did his best to ignore that.
The sight of Gariath was decidedly more difficult to ignore.
In one great hand he clutched Kataria by the heel, the shict snarling, raking claws at the dragonman’s thigh and twitching her ears menacingly. Beneath his foot, Asper grunted and strained to dislodge herself while Dreadaeleon slapped impotently at the long tail wrapped about his neck, cursing breathlessly. Whatever fight had occurred was obviously over and done with, the clear victor simply enjoying his triumph at his foes’ humiliation.
‘So, Rashodd doesn’t know anything?’ Lenk brought the rogue’s attention back to him.
‘No, he doesn’t.’ Denaos frowned at the scene. ‘Did . . . something fun happen while I was gone?’
‘It’s not important,’ Lenk replied. ‘Are you sure he wasn’t lying?’
‘Quite sure.’ Denaos looked at the glistening meat on his companion’s face, then grimaced at the sight of so many nearby corpses. ‘Where exactly did you get the meat?’
‘I found it.’
‘It’s . . . fresh meat,’ Denaos said, grimacing. Any flesh from an animal might have been fresh when they set out from Muraska’s harbour a month ago, but now . . . ‘And . . . you just put that meat . . . that fresh meat . . . that you found on the floor . . . on your face?’
‘I got hit in the eye. It’s not like I’m going to eat it.’ The young man scratched his chin, wincing as his fingers grazed a cut. ‘That can’t be the whole story. We should ask Argaol if he knows anything.’
‘Don’t be stupid.’ Kataria’s voice was quickly followed by Kataria’s elbow as she pushed herself in front of Lenk. Gariath seemed unconcerned with her escape. ‘Argaol doesn’t know his head from his foot. You need to talk to—’
‘Miron.’ Dreadaeleon staggered to join the assembly, coughing. ‘Obviously.’
‘No!’ Asper emerged last, followed by Gariath. ‘I’ll not have you go after the Lord Emissary with accusations and blasphemies.’
‘He’s the only one who would know anything,’ Kataria snapped back. ‘Are you such a moron that you’d trust him just because he wears a robe fancier than yours?’
‘I’m not a moron,’ Asper countered hotly, ‘and
he’s
not the kind of man who needs to be pestered by savages. We need to calm down and—’
‘Kill him.’ Gariath glanced at the incredulous expressions cast his way and shrugged. ‘As if no one else was thinking it. Let’s just hunt him down and get it over with.’
‘None of that will be necessary.’
The crowd around the entryway parted at the sound of the voice, all figures clearing the way, all eyes settling on the tall, white-garbed figure standing therein. Their eyes flashed with a legion of emotions: defensive reverence, suspicious glares, barely restrained murderous intent. And yet, behind each unblinking stare a confused caution pervaded, forcing them to back away and allow him entry into the mess.
The usual gentle mirth Miron had always worn had vanished from his face, replaced by a baleful frown. He seemed to have grown from the quiet, unassuming priest to a towering, white-clad spectre as he stared out over the companions, his gaze settling on them one by one.
‘You . . . have questions.’
‘Brilliant.’ Denaos chuckled. ‘Did you learn all that by overhearing us or did you ask Talanas for guidance on the subject?’
‘Shut up,’ Asper snarled, scowling at the rogue.
‘Mirth is a fine coping mechanism,’ the priest said, offering the faintest trace of a smile that quickly vanished back into his frown. ‘But the answers I have for you are nothing to jest about.’

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