Best Served Cold

“Maybe a hundred years ago, when the Gurkish conquered Dawah, a lot of Southerners fled before them. Some crossed the water and settled here, and they raised up temples in thanks for their salvation. Westport is almost as much a part of the South as it’s a part of Styria. But then it’s part of the Union too, since the Aldermen finally had to pick a side, and bought the High King his victory over the Gurkish. They call this place the Crossroads of the World. Those that don’t call it a nest of liars, anyway. There are people settled here from across the Thousand Isles, from Suljuk and Sikkur, from Thond and the Old Empire. Northmen even.”

“Anything but those stupid bastards.”

“Primitives, to a man. I hear some of them grow their hair long like women. But they’ll take anyone here.” Her gloved finger pointed out a long row of men on little platforms at the far end of the square. A strange bloody crowd, even for this place. Old and young, tall and short, fat and bony, some with strange robes or headgear, some half-naked and painted, one with bones through his face. A few had signs behind ’em in all kinds of letters, beads or baubles hanging. They danced and capered, threw their arms up, stared at the sky, dropped on their knees, wept, laughed, raged, sang, screamed, begged, all blathering away over each other in more languages than Shivers had known about.

“Who the hell are these bastards?” he muttered.

“Holy men. Or madmen, depending who you ask. Down in Gurkhul, you have to pray how the Prophet tells you. Here each man can worship as he pleases.”

“They’re praying?”

Murcatto shrugged. “More like they’re trying to convince everyone else that they know the best way.”

People stood watching ’em. Some nodding along with what they were saying. Some shaking their heads, laughing, shouting back even. Some just stood there, bored. One of the holy men, or the madmen, started screaming at Shivers as he rode past in words he couldn’t make a smudge of sense from. He knelt, stretching out his arms, beads round his neck rattling, voice raw with pleading. Shivers could see it in his red-rimmed eyes-he thought this was the most important thing he’d ever do.

“Must be a nice feeling,” said Shivers.

“What must?”

“Thinking you know all the answers…” He trailed off as a woman walked past with a man on a lead. A big, dark man with a collar of shiny metal, carrying a sack in either hand, his eyes kept on the ground. “You see that?”

“In the South most men either own someone or are owned themselves.”

“That’s a bastard custom,” muttered Shivers. “I thought you said this was part o’ the Union, though.”

“And they love their freedom over in the Union, don’t they? You can’t make a man a slave there.” She nodded towards some more, being led past meek and humble in a line. “But if they pass through no one’s freeing them, I can tell you that.”

“Bloody Union. Seems those bastards always want more land. There’s more of ’em than ever in the North. Uffrith’s full of ’em, since the wars started up again. And what do they need more land for? You should see that city they’ve got already. Makes this place look a village.”

She looked sharply across at him. “Adua?”

“That’s the one.”

“You’ve been there?”

“Aye. I fought the Gurkish there. Got me this mark.” And he pulled back his sleeve to show the scar on his wrist. When he looked back she had an odd look in her eye. You might almost have called it respect. He liked seeing it. Been a while since anyone looked at him with aught but contempt.

“Did you stand in the shadow of the House of the Maker?” she asked.

“Most of the city’s in the shadow of that thing one time o’ day or another.”

“What was it like?”

“Darker’n outside it. Shadows tend to be, in my experience.”

“Huh.” The first time Shivers had seen anything close to a smile on her face, and he reckoned it suited her. “I always said I’d go.”

“To Adua? What’s stopping you?”

“Six men I need to kill.”

Shivers puffed out his cheeks. “Ah. That.” A surge of worry went through him, and he wondered afresh just why the hell he’d ever said yes. “I’ve always been my own worst enemy,” he muttered.

“Stick with me, then.” Her smile had widened some. “You’ll soon have worse. We’re here.”

Not all that heartening, as a destination. A narrow alley, dim as dusk. Crumbling buildings crowded in, shutters rotten and peeling, sheets of plaster cracking away from damp bricks. He led his horse after the cart and through a dim archway while Murcatto swung the creaking doors shut behind them and shot the rusted bolt. Shivers tethered his horse to a rotting post in a yard strewn with weeds and fallen tiles.

“A palace,” he muttered, staring up towards the square of grey sky high above, the walls all round coated with dried-up weeds, the shutters hanging miserable from their hinges. “Once.”

“I took it for the location,” said Murcatto, “not the decor.”

They made for a gloomy hall, empty doorways leading into empty chambers. “Lot of rooms,” said Shivers.

Friendly nodded. “Twenty-two.”