Deadhouse Landing

‘Nearest? Well, the most accessible stands on an island to the south. The island of Malaz. It is called – and I do not joke – the Deadhouse.’

‘I know you do not joke,’ Dassem muttered. ‘Very well. You pledge to withhold your hand until I should reach this place?’

‘I shall … abide.’

He gave a curt nod. ‘Very good. I leave immediately.’ And he walked out through the gaping entrance.

Silence settled into place over the empty mausoleum. The only sounds were those of far off muted voices and the clatter of a few carts on neighbouring streets.

Then, a long low chuckle softly echoed about the stones. A dried hand of withered ligaments and bare bone rose to make a casting gesture as of tossing a dart into the distance, and the corpse collapsed into a cloud of dust, sinew and rotten cloth.

*   *   *

A kick woke Rebben to darkness and a godsawful taste in his mouth. He whipped out his knife only to have it slapped from his hand. He squinted, focusing on the fellow who had a handful of his shirt. He pawed at the hand. ‘What in the fucking Abyss?’

The Dal Hon fellow shook him again. ‘This boat leaves now.’

‘No it godsdamned well doesn’t.’

‘Why not?’

The hand released him. He fell back against the riverboat’s side and winced at the stab of pain in his back. ‘Quarantine ’gainst the sickness. The river gates are all closed. No shipping up or down.’

The Dal Hon cursed softly, straightened from looming over him. ‘Dammit … Very well. Sorry to trouble you.’ A heavy coin fell against his chest and he clutched at it, touching his brow.

He waved the fellow off as he lightly stepped up to the dock, then raised the coin to the faint light. Now there’s a turn – being assaulted in the night and handed money instead of having it taken? First time that ever happened to him. He froze upon catching the glint of gold and a stamped design unfamiliar to him. Just how old was this thing, anyway?

*   *   *

Dassem headed to the southern Outer Round gate, known as the Gate of the Mountains – a reference, perhaps, to distant Kanese highlands far to the south. He cradled Nara tight against his chest, wrapped in her blankets.

When he reached the vicinity of the gate he went to the nearest trading house and banged on the door. Eventually, it opened, and he faced a rotund bearded fellow in a long nightshirt who blinked at him, squinting, ‘What in the Protectress’s name d’you want?’

‘I want transport. A cart or small wagon, preferably covered. And horses.’

The trader smacked his lips, drew a hand down through his thick beard. ‘And this can’t wait till morning?’

‘No it cannot.’

The trader rolled his gaze to the ceiling. ‘Why do I always get the winners? Fine. But let’s see your coin – up front.’

Dassem handed over one of his small coin bags. The trader opened it then held it to the lamp next to the door. His brows shot up almost to his jumbled hair.

‘Whatever you have,’ Dassem said.

The fellow studied him, almost stunned, perhaps looking for fresh blood on him from recent murders, then leaned forward to peer up and down the street as if expecting at any minute the crashing arrival of the city guard. Seeing and hearing nothing, he raised his shoulders in a shrug then stepped out and waved for Dassem to follow. ‘This way.’

They crossed to a corral next door. Here, the trader pointed to a covered cart off in the shadows. Even in the dark, Dassem could see that it was painted a lurid red and gold. ‘What is that?’

‘An old dowager commissioned that for a pilgrimage to all Burn’s holy sites on the road east. To earn merit, and to give thanks for all her grandsons.’

‘So, you cannot sell it?’

‘No. She died the day before she was due to leave. Now I’m stuck with it.’

Dassem studied the eye-wateringly ugly thing, then nodded. ‘It is perfect. I will take it. I’ll want two horses.’

The trader squeezed the leather bag in his grip. ‘One’ll do.’

‘I want two.’

The trader’s jaws worked, and then he sighed. ‘Very well.’

‘And throw in supplies – a cask of water. Forage for the horses.’

The fellow was nodding. ‘I’ll go wake the boys…’

*   *   *

It was light, but not yet dawn, when a brightly painted cart hauled by two horses came to the recently rebuilt southern Outer Round gate. The guards, half asleep, blinked at the startling sight. One nudged his companion, saying, ‘Hey, Hurst … the carnival in town?’

Hurst rose, groaning and stamping his feet. ‘Sure looks like it, Raf.’ He leaned on the pole of his eight-foot tall halberd, muttered a bored, ‘Gate’s closed.’

The tall, lean Dal Hon leading the horses stepped up. ‘Then open it.’

Hurst turned an amused glance to his companion, sniffed, and spat to the cobbles. ‘Curfew. Order of the Protectress. Move along.’

‘I intend to move along – to the south.’

Hurst cocked a brow. ‘And how’re you gonna do that?’

‘Through this gate.’

The other guard, Raf, took out a pear and bit it; he offered Hurst a wink. Hurst was nodding. ‘All right. An’ just how’re you gonna get through the gate?’

‘You’re going to open it for me.’

Raf snorted a laugh, chewing.