He felt her cold touch on his skin. His mother wasn't the only person Mayel had seen dying of disease; he had known some who had endured agonising months of her cruelty. The Wither Queen robbed her victims of everything, of the person they had once been as much as the life her lord demanded. Though she was a God, Mayel hated her for what she was.
The detail of the plain below the Reapers was vague; angular shapes hinted at a carpet of slaughtered men and creatures. Somehow the magnitude of the horror was increased by the remoteness. Framing the entire plain was a high ridge of grim rocks the colour of sand. Mayel looked closer and realised that there was the faintest of detail on the rocks, almost like the grain of wood. He shivered, thinking of the pine boxes wealthier folk used to bury their dead in.
'Gods, man,' Shandek exclaimed, 'you've quite a skill there. This is better than any I've seen in my life.'
'Thank you, sir. It's…' The painter's voice tailed off as he looked from Shandek to the painting. A small man with the dark skin that spoke of a western heritage, he wore little more than rags, yet his face was clean and his hair carefully trimmed. His expression was one of dazed bemusement, as if he couldn't believe he had been able to produce it. 'It is the best thing I've ever done, by a long way.'
'I didn't know you cared anything about art,' Mayel said to his cousin, unable to tear his eyes from the painting.
'Ah, I've seen a bit in my time.' Shandek grinned.
'When? You're no collector.'
'No, but I've been in plenty of places belongin' to men who are. You have my compliments, friend. Can you tell us where the man in charge is?'
The painter gave a wince and jabbed his brush towards the interior. 'The minstrel will be in one of the boxes. Sitting in shadow. If you go in they'll find you soon enough.'
'They?' wondered Shandek aloud, but the painter had already re¬turned to his work. Shrugging, Shandek stepped through the gates and glanced into the dim, cramped room where the money-collectors would work, counting the copper pieces as folk filed in. It was empty yet, without even a stool or table.
A walkway led off both left and right, to storerooms of no more than two yards' depth on the outer side, and the boxes for the rich folk further in on the inner wall. Ahead was a short flight of steps leading into the theatre itself.
Shandek hopped up these and turned to beckon Mayel to follow. The youth hesitated, still unnerved by the painting on the door. The
style reminded him of religious paintings, the ancient and holy images they had been so proud of on the Island of Birds.
Behind him, he felt the presence of Brohm loom close. He'd been shadowing them, and he wasn't going to enter until Mayel had.
'Why did you want me to come here with you?'
'Why?' Shandek puffed his cheeks out in dismissal. 'No great reason, cuz. I wanted to speak to you before I came, thought you might be interested. Also, you got more learnin' than me. These artistic types might say somethin' clever and I wouldn't know whether to agree or stab 'em.'
Mayel sighed and started up the steps. Something nagged at him. I don't want to be here at all, but what am 1 frightened of? Jackdaw won't be here, and what else do I have to be afraid of?
As if in answer, a figure leapt out behind Shandek and grabbed him by his shoulders in a blur of bone-white. Shandek yelped and tried to turn, but his attacker held him tight, pinning his arms back. Mayel saw a white, hairless head and a savage flash of teeth over Shandek's shoulder. His cousin flailed madly as Brohm shoved Mayel aside and ran for the stairs, but before he reached his employer, the albino had jumped backwards and effortlessly tossed Shandek away.
Brohm raised his massive fist as he charged, but the albino was quicker. Darting forward, he lunged low and crashed a fist into Brohm's stomach, stopping the larger man in his tracks. Brohm gasped and doubled over, sinking to his knees, only to be grabbed by the scruff of the neck and thrown down after his master. Mayel heard the thump of Brohm falling and rolling on the rough paved steps. Then there was silence.
Having despatched both men from his path, the albino paused, hairless head bright in the sunlight. He was dressed in cropped linen trousers and a laced shirt, sleeves cut well short of the wrist. As Mayel took in the albino's malformed face, he wondered whether this was a human at all. It looked as if some God had formed the albino from white clay, using a detailed description, but without actually seeing the real thing. The features were too smooth, the jaw protruding and thick. Its eyes were over-large, curling almonds of blackness. Meeting the albino's gaze drained the warmth from Mayel's heart, drawing him in to a cold and pitiless place.
He tore his eyes away as the albino continued to inspect him, look¬ing at him as if he were an insect, or a rabbit that had surprised a wolf
by not running. He looked down. Its bare feet were split down the middle and Mayel's breath caught when he realised each foot mainly consisted of two great toes, a short talon curled down over the end of each.
'That's enough, I think,' called an unseen man. The albino's head snapped round, but soon dropped its glare. It pointed at Mayel, then retreated with alacrity.
'Please, come out into the light. My guard dog won't hurt you.'
Mayel stared out into the open auditorium, frozen with fear, until a burst of swearing rang out. He scrambled up the steps.
'Pissin' breath of Karkarn!' his cousin groaned. 'I'll shove that painter's brush so far up his arse he'll paint with his tongue from now on.'
'Now, now,' said the voice, and a man dressed as a minstrel came into sight, lounging in a box with his feet up on the barrier. Around his neck was a golden chain, with strange discs, like coins, decorated with jewels. A peacock feather sprouted from his hat. 'I am certain the painter will have told you no lies, so you can hardly blame him for the actions of others.'
Shandek hauled himself up. Brohm was sitting upright, clutching his gut. Neither looked badly hurt.
'We jus' came here to talk. Didn't hafta set your wolves on us,' Brohm muttered.
The minstrel gave a sniff. 'They're dogs, not wolves.'
'Look more like wolves to me,' Shandek replied, dusting himself down and walking up to Mayel's side. The albino retreated into the shadow of another box. Mayel scanned the theatre, the empty rows of stone steps surrounded by cramped rooms for the rich, all looking down on the pit, a round area of flattened earth. There were deep shadows at the back, where Mayel thought he glimpsed another white face.
'There is a difference. Wolves do not take orders, wolves are not tamed.'
'You call these tame?' Shandek wondered, rubbing at his temple, where a bruise was starting to colour the skin.
'Certainly. They obey my commands without question and since I have given them instructions to dissuade trespassers, they are most enthusiastic in the execution of that order. I did not say they were less dangerous than wolves, quite the opposite. Shandek, you should understand that.' The minstrel's voice was low and mocking.
Mayel felt somehow sullied.
'Why should I understand that?' Shandek wondered. 'Never met one of these bastards before.'
'You should understand because you own dog-fighting pits,' the minstrel explained. 'The savagery in a dogfight surpasses anything a wolf would do. It is men that make them dangerous – men have corrupted the wolf and created a more dangerous creature in his own image.'
'You sound like you disapprove of the change,' Mayel interjected, 'yet you make use of these dogs and all their savagery.'