After the donkey had been calm for several minutes, he crawled out into the light. He still half-expected the Iron Jackal to be hiding on top of the cart, waiting to stab him in the back from above. But there was no sign of it, and something told him it had gone.
He’d survived the second visit. That only left the last. If the sorcerer was to be believed, the Iron Jackal wouldn’t give up a third time.
He coughed and spat. Aching everywhere, he made his painful way up the alley. He still had a rendezvous with Trinica to get to. And he was pretty sure the damned daemon had made him late.
Thirty
‘What happened to you?’ Trinica asked, laughing. Then she saw the look on his face, and the laughter drained out of her. ‘What happened?’ she asked again, serious this time.
Frey sat down next to her on the broad stone steps that led from the shrine behind them to the river below. He was muddy and tattered, his hair was everywhere, and he stank of sweat and dead animals.
‘I’ve had a bit of a bad day,’ he said.
She reached towards him, hesitated, then brushed the hair away from his forehead with quick and uncertain movements. The concern in her eyes forced him to turn his head away as tears threatened. Exhaustion and fright had made him overemotional. He took a few breaths to get himself under control.
‘You want to see inside the shrine?’ she asked, out of nowhere.
He didn’t want to see inside the shrine. He couldn’t have cared less about it. But she sensed the state he was in. She sensed it, and pretended she didn’t, and she was giving him something to distract himself until he was ready to talk.
Damn, this woman was so right for him. Nobody understood him like she did.
‘Yeah.’ He nodded and managed a smile. ‘That’d be nice.’
She got to her feet, bringing her parasol with her, and held out a hand. He took it, glad of the excuse to touch her. The effort of standing up made him wince.
It was the old Trinica who had appeared today, the one he’d almost married. She was wearing short trousers, sandals and a shirt, exposing slender, marble-white limbs that glistened with an unguent for protection against sunburn. Frey hadn’t seen her wearing so little for more than a decade. Even beat up and filthy as he was, he suddenly found himself very interested in all that unclothed skin.
Her chopped-off white-blonde hair had been fixed into a style that she carried off well. While she still hacked her hair, these days she never did it so much that she couldn’t make something out of it when she wanted to.
She saw him staring at her. ‘What?’ she asked with a smile.
‘You know what.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Darian,’ she said, and it could have meant anything. But he thought she was pleased.
She was in a lighthearted, girlish mood today. Their sour parting had been forgotten, and there would be no apology necessary from either side. He was glad of that. He was rubbish at apologies at the best of times.
She chatted about nothing as she led him up the stairs towards the shrine at the top. Her manner was such a contrast to the horror he’d experienced on the way to meet her that his spirits began to return. So what if he looked a mess? Trinica had forgiven him. That was a result.
The shrine was a simple semicircle of white and weathered columns beneath a flat roof. It was plain in comparison to the grand and elaborate buildings he could see crowding the far bing the ank of the river and clinging to the bridges that spanned it. Dakkadians and Samarlans passed by, going unhurriedly about their business, or loafed on the steps, watching the boats on the river, but none came inside.
It was a relief to be out of the sun. The shrine seemed dim in comparison, even though it was open on all sides to the light. Inside the shrine, nine huge alabaster figures stood against the flat rear wall. None of them had a face. They were blank and smooth. There were six identical males and three identical females, the difference being the height, the shape of the body and the length of the hair. Other than that, there was no decoration at all. It was a white, quiet, empty place.
Frey looked from one statue to another, and back again. ‘Their gods are really boring, huh? Who are this lot?’
‘The Nameless,’ said Trinica, with a wry glance.
Frey snorted. ‘Should’ve known, really. Honestly, folks worship all kinds of shit. You know, I just found out that Silo believes he’ll be born again in another body after he dies.’
‘Of course he does. He’s a Murthian.’
‘How comes everyone knows about that except me?’
She patted him on the arm. ‘Books, Darian. You know, if you open one, you’ll find it full of words.’
‘Words, eh?’ Frey said. ‘Tell me more.’
‘Well, for instance, in books there are stories about the old gods of Samarla, and how they once lived on Atalon among their people. It was a paradise, and nobody wanted for anything. But the people became corrupt and decadent, and they stopped worshipping their gods. Evil grew in them-’
‘ Now it’s getting interesting,’ Frey interjected.
She gave him a look. ‘Evil grew in them, and this evil became manifest. A plague – the translation is literally soul-plague – swept through the land, killing the good. Many people died, but only the most pious, the most faithful. And then the gods began to die too. One by one they fell, killed by the ungratefulness of their subjects. And the evil people saw them die, and thought that they might not be gods after all, and made war on them. The gods departed the world in despair, rising up into the sky on a pillar of fire.’
‘Right,’ said Frey. ‘Pillar of fire.’
‘A little open-mindedness wouldn’t hurt you, Darian.’
‘I dunno,’ he said. ‘Every time I open my mind, things fall out.’
‘That explains a lot,’ she replied. ‘Anyway, listen, you’ll like this bit. As punishment for the soul-plague, the gods unleashed seven great beasts of unstoppable power to destroy the paradise they’d created. They were called the Juggernauts. They roamed the land, destroying settlements, eradicating crops, slaughtering anything that moved. The people hid, and starved, and prayed to the gods for mercy. It took a hundred years of suffering before the Juggernauts stopped, disappearing as mysteriously as they came.’
‘So what’s up with the no-face thing?’ Frey asked, gesturing at the statues.
‘I’m getting to that. For hundreds of years after the Juggernauts, the gods were silent, and the scattered tribes reunited. In that time, a man called Nezzuath appeared, and he-’
‘Wait,’ said Frey. ‘Let me guess. He claimed he could speak to the gods.’
‘Oh, Darian. So cynical. You think you’re so wise in the ways of the world.’
‘Hey, I know the ways of the world. Let’s not forget, I wasn’t the one born with a silver spoon in my arse.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Just a colossal chip on your shoulder.’
‘Touche.’
‘Do you want to know about the Nameless Ones or not?’
‘Not really,’ he said. Then he grinned. ‘But I do love to hear you talk.’
‘Well, shut up and be educated, then.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said, falsely contrite.
She composed herself again. ‘Nezzuath,’ she said, ‘claimed he could speak with the gods.’
Frey cracked up. She swatted him, but he couldn’t stop, so eventually she had to hustle him out for fear of offending the locals.
‘You’re a terrible student, you know,’ she said, as they walked down the steps towards a street that ran along the river bank. The parasol rested against her shoulder, casting her into the shade. She couldn’t stop smiling, and that made him smile too.
‘I’ve been told,’ he replied. Then he stopped and frowned, looking off into the distance.
‘What is it?’ she asked, catching the change in him.