Bad Gods Page 5

  He glanced at me over the rim of his glass, his eyes glittering. “You are a dangerous woman, Babylon. Much too easy to talk to.”

  “You are a pleasure to listen to, my lord.”

  “Well, I know I can rely on your discretion.”

  “Of course.”

  After washing, we went downstairs.

  “Ah, here he is,” Antheran said. “Well, my boy?”

  The lad was definitely looking happier. The sulky pout had disappeared, and a dreamy, slightly glazed smile had replaced it. “Dvit. I mean, yes, thank you, Papa.”

  “Good, good!”

  The boy turned the smile in my direction and said, “Do you have, please, a...” he scribbled on air.

  “Quill?”

  “Please, yes. And perhaps paper?”

  Oh, dear. I glanced at his father.

  “Paper?” he said. “You have used it all already? Always more paper! It is expensive, you know.”

  I didn’t want to deprive the poor boy, but I didn’t want to annoy his father, either.

  “Oh, if you have some,” Antheran said, “give it to him, please, and add it to my bill. There is no harm, after all, in a little hobby.” He clapped his son on the shoulder.

  Personally, I couldn’t help feeling that if his first taste of the fleshly delights immediately made the boy want to write about it, he might be doomed to poetry whether his father liked it or not.

  I glanced up the stairs and saw Essie looking down and grinning. She winked at me and disappeared.

  The boy left the poem for her, of course, but he did it very gracefully. He took off one of his own rings – no gaudy trinket, either, but a delicate band of plaited gold – folded it into the paper, and wrote her name on the outside.

  There are worse things than a boy having his first taste of puppy love. I would have to remind Essie to be kind, though, and help her think of some tactful things to say about the poem. It was almost certain to be terrible. Especially as he was writing in Lithan, rather than his own tongue. Lithan is the main language of the Perindi Empire, which controls large portions of a couple of our neighbouring planes. It’s also the language of the majority of passing traders, and is what we mostly speak at home; though Scalentine has its own pidgin. We have people from so many places, some with languages that bear little resemblance to either Lithan or anything else. Scalentine pidgin is a mishmash of many of them. It’s easy enough once you get the hang of it, and surprisingly flexible.

  Antheran left a more than generous tip and a promise to drop in before he returned home.

  It turned out to be a busy night. We had a slight misunderstanding with a large furry gentleman from Nederan (a country through Throat portal, all ice and sagas) who, due to language difficulties, thought he was getting a girl, got a boy, and believed for a few interesting and quite loud moments that we’d impugned his manhood. We bundled the helplessly giggling young man in question (Jivrais, of course) out of sight, and managed to calm the client down before anything very expensive got broken. Laney, wearing a fragile concoction of sea-foam green and looking far too tiny for such a bulky client, pounced on him like a kitten discovering the best ball of wool ever, and whisked him away into her room in a whirlwind of chatter and adept little hands.

  I was passing back through the hall when I caught a glimpse of someone and stopped. It was a lad of about ten, strolling through with his eyes wide, looking as if he owned the place. “Oi!” I said. “What are you doing in here?”

  “Delivery?” he said, brazen, but he’d already glanced behind him.

  “Of what? And from who?”

  “Er... buns. Fresh... buns.”

  “Come here.”

  But he had already turned and scooted for the front door. Previous, taken by surprise, made a grab, but he evaded her.

  “You want me to chase him?” she said, strapping on her dented helmet as we watched the skinny little devil disappear down the street.

  “Nah. Didn’t seem like a thief, just curious. Hoping to see something naughty. How the hells they get in, though...”

  “I’ll have a look round later,” Previous said. “There’s got to be a loose window or something somewhere.”

  The Twins were very busy, too; I had to go down there and tell them to keep the noise down.

  The Basement... the Basement makes me uncomfortable. The Twins specialise in pain, and don’t get me wrong, they’re an asset to the business. But all those chains and straps give me the grue. I’m always glad to get out of there.

  Their current client looked up from where he was tied and got a hopeful look in his eyes when he saw me, but it isn’t my style. If I feel like causing someone pain it usually isn’t because they want me to. “The yells are getting through upstairs,” I said.

  Cruel put down the thing she was holding (it looked as though it was made of three parts leather to one of steel, but I didn’t examine it too closely) and wiped her forehead. “Sorry, Babylon.” She gave the client one of her more disturbing smiles. “We’re just going to have to make sure someone can’t make any more noise...”

  He whimpered happily. I left them to it.

  Dawn was streaking the sky with chilly orange as the last client left, the ghosts of both moons hanging low and plump over the rooftops. The nights were getting colder. Bad weather for the street whores. Glinchen’s probably large enough to stay warm, but not everyone’s built to their generous dimensions.

  I finally stripped off, bathed and fell into bed, alone, in that state of weariness that feels as though you’re wearing armour after you lie down.

  But every time I thought I might be drifting off, Enthemmerlee crept into my head, with her wide, solemn yellow eyes. There was something about those eyes; not just the colour. A look. Something fated.

  Fain really hadn’t told me much. Maybe if I could find out more about the people she came from, I could pick up more of a clue. And I knew where to ask.

  Tiresana

  A provincial town; the ceremony of the Choosing. A temple to Hap-Canae, the sun god. The yellow stone, chosen for its colour, bleached to the shade of dead lemons. The great bronze masks with their flame-carved hair glaring from the walls, the sun clashing off their burnished brows. The hiss of cymbals like water on hot stones. The scent of the ghost-lilies down by the great Rohin river, so heavy-sweet they were nearly rotten, mixed with the insistent reek of sewage and the ancient smell of river mud.

  Sweating in our best clothes, hoping the ceremony would be over before the worst of the heat. Watching the priests and priestesses walk among the crowd; distant-gazed and dreamy, waiting for the gods to speak to them – or for the crowd to be impressed enough so that they could pick out the Chosen and get out of the sun. A small child, bored, fussing thinly and being hushed.

  Suddenly, as if from nowhere, there was the Avatar of Hap-Canae; magnificent in gold and tawny silks, at least a head taller than anyone around him, and handsome as the dawn.

  There were gasps and screams and a tumbling collapse as people fell on their faces.

  He always did love to be theatrical.

  I’d never seen an Avatar before. He outshone the bronze masks; he was like an alabaster lamp with the sun trapped inside it. His skin glowed, his smile lifted your heart. He was as beautiful as a jaguar.

  Once everyone was over the shock, the priests scrambled up, brushing off their robes, and started a praise chant. He gave a little bow, smiling.

  He looked around, slowly, but with great focus, like a hunter seeking a target.

  His eyes locked on me and I was caught. I couldn’t move as he walked towards me. I couldn’t move as all around me the crowd drew back to let him through. I just stared at him, with my mouth open.

  He stopped in front of me and looked down; I was already tall for my age, but he towered over me. He smiled and put one finger under my chin and closed my mouth. He smelled of cardamom and myrrh.

  He said, “You will be an acolyte at the great temple. In time, if you pro
ve worthy, you will become a High Priestess of Babaska.”

  It was utterly quiet. You could feel the shockwave roll out from us, as though someone had dropped a stone in a pool.

  It was just like the stories. An unknown servant-girl had been Chosen.

  You could hear the crowd breathing, and a bird down by the river, singing an endless falling trill. Then the priests, who were as flummoxed as anyone, remembered how it was supposed to work, and started the celebration chant and drowned the silence.

  He hadn’t even asked my name. He took my hand, and led me away from my life. I looked back, and there were the family and all the other servants, agape. The Mistress looked as though someone had doused her with cold water. But it was the guards I looked to: Radan, looking worried; Kyrl, grinning, giving me the thumbs up before she realised someone might think it disrespectful and dropped her hand; and Sesh, frowning, then giving me a tentative smile. I was so dazed, it was all I could do to raise my hand in a half-wave. Then I followed the Avatar.

  I don’t know, even now, how the Avatar Hap-Canae found me. How he knew I was suitable. Had he planned to turn up for a normal Choosing, just to keep everyone sufficiently impressed with the glory of the Avatars? Had he turned up on the off chance?

  Either way, it was typical of him not to have warned the priests what he was planning; it made it all so very dramatic.

  And there was probably some girl or boy who was supposed to have been Chosen, standing there in the crowd, surrounded by a family now wondering what the hells had happened. The priests no doubt had to exercise a lot of diplomacy in the next few days – but of course it worked to their advantage, in the end. After all, the legend had been proved, the gods had been shown to be capable of just choices.

  Not that the Chosen in question had any say in the matter. And it didn’t occur to me then, or until some time later, that it was perhaps a little odd that one Avatar should pick out a priestess for another; that Babaska did not choose her own acolytes. I was an ignorant child, what did I know of the ways of Avatars and Gods?

  Chapter Five

  Day 2

  5 days to Twomoon

  I was in the blue room when Flower came in with dishes and a scowl on, his apron askew.

  “No sausages,” he said, dumping bowls of hot rolls and plates fluffily piled with eggs onto a table already loaded with fresh fruit, cream, butter, pastries and all the other things he considers essential to a good start to the day. “I don’t call that breakfast,” he said, regarding the laden table.

  “It looks like breakfast to me.” I said, loading a plate. “What’s the matter?”

  “The butcher hasn’t delivered. I had everything planned and now I’ve got to reorganise three days’ worth of menus before I go and shout at her.”

  I patted his arm. “I’ll go have a word.” Flower wouldn’t shout at the butcher, but I would if I needed to. “I have to go out anyway, see if I can find anything on that girl.”

  He handed me a list. “This is what I ordered. Mirril’s good, usually; used her for years. And if she hasn’t any black-backed hog, tell her I’ll take a haunch of red hopper instead.”

  Previous was on the door again, arms folded, wearing a battered breastplate, ancient leather trousers and helmet, looking stolid and tough.

  “Hey. Everything smooth?” I said.

  “Yeah. Babylon? Can I take some time tonight? I know we’re close to Twomoon, but...”

  “Sure, I’ll find someone for the door. Doing something nice?”

  “Just meeting a friend,” she said, staring into the distance.

  The blush crept up her neck like sunrise. That’s the trouble with being a redhead.

  “Previous...” I said, grinning.

  “What?”

  “So? When are we going to get to meet him?”

  “Dunno what you mean,” she said, scowling into the distance.

  She’s a funny lass. She doesn’t do the upstairs work, that’s never been her style. Her having a hanger-on was new, and we were all wild to get a look at him.

  “Ah, come on,” I said. “We won’t scare him off, promise. Bring him to dinner.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Please? Or Jivrais will end up following you, just so he can get a glimpse of your mystery man. You know what he’s like.”

  “Like you aren’t as bad.”

  “Just concerned for you, Previous. You know. Want to make sure he’s not taking advantage, you being such an innocent little thing...”

  She called me something rude. “All right, all right. I’ll bring him over.”

  I patted her cheek, and she growled at me.

  The butcher was in Small Spell Street. Carcasses of every kind of beast – furred, skinned and scaled – hung in the window, different shades of blood dripping onto the scrubbed planks.

  Unlike in most butcher’s shops, there wasn’t a fly to be seen; every board was scrubbed white and the scent of soap was almost as strong as the scent of meat. I could hear a faint, irregular squeak but I’d have bet my sword it wasn’t a mouse; I doubted one would dare venture here, for fear of death by scrubbing.

  The squeak came from the counter, where a small, vaguely familiar-looking dark-skinned girl, about ten, with the shiny look of a polished apple and wearing an apron so white it almost hurt, was perched on a stool, the corner of her tongue poking out of her mouth as she worked at her letters. She looked up with a smile. “Help you?”

  “Missing order, for the Red Lantern?” I recognised her now; she normally delivered our order.

  “Just a moment.”

  She slipped off her stool and disappeared through a curtain into the back. I heard murmuring and the butcher appeared, the girl behind her. She was a big woman, greying hair in a tight bun, with solidly muscled arms and blood on her apron. She was holding a cleaver. “Missus Steel, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. We put an order in, should have got it this morning?” I held out the list, but she didn’t take it.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Order shouldn’t have been taken, we can’t fill it.”

  I glanced around the shop; there seemed to be plenty of meat, but I’m not Flower; I couldn’t tell what she had and what she didn’t. “None of it?”

  “Sorry. And we can’t take any more orders.”

  “You can’t...”

  “Not for the Red Lantern.”

  “Ah.”

  It happens sometimes. There are people who don’t want to be associated with my business, even when they can make money out of it. She hadn’t struck me as the starched-underlinen type, but you can’t always tell.

  She glanced up at me, briefly. “I’m sorry,” she said. Funny thing was, I got the sense she meant it. Maybe she really was sorry, one businesswoman to another.

  I just smiled – well, I moved my mouth – and turned to go.

  “Missus Steel?”

  “What?”

  She fidgeted with the cleaver, not looking at me. “You oughta be careful.”

  It wasn’t a conversation I wanted to get into, especially with the girl hanging around looking wide-eyed at me. I glanced at her. Her mother caught the look and jerked her head towards the back of the shop; the girl went.

  “Look,” I said, “if your husband or whoever’s been coming to see us, you need to talk to him, not to me. We don’t ask.”

  “My husband’s been dead five years. I’m just saying.” She turned away, lifted a skinned animal the size of a small deer onto the slab with one easy swing of her arms and started dismembering it with swift accuracy.

  I found another butcher easily enough, though I didn’t doubt Flower would soon pick a different one, but the shop looked clean and smelled fresh and the owner, a skinny, furry chap with a wide grin, had no problem filling the order.

  From there, I went to The Lodestone. It’s all low lighting, staff so discreet they’re practically invisible, and the smell of some of Scalentine’s most expensive food. I was dressed in my normal street clothes: goo
d boots, leather and... well, leather, mostly. It’s comfortable, it’s stylish (by my standards, anyway), and it can survive a lot. I’d barely walked in when Clariel saw me.

  I love to watch a professional at work. I’m not exactly inconspicuous at my height, even in Scalentine, but she whisked me out of sight without causing so much as a ripple among the clientele. She’s something. Always dressed in a dark blue suit so crisply cut you could shave coins with it, glowing white wings folded behind her. She doesn’t like the term angel, but it gets used a lot.

  She raised an eyebrow at me. I’ve seen strong men quail at the sight of that eyebrow, but I’m not so easy to intimidate.

  “I assume you are not looking for a table,” she said, giving me the up-and-down.

  “Not at your prices, Clariel. I need some information.”

  “Swift, Babylon.” She waved one elegant hand towards the restaurant. “We are busy today.”

  I told her.

  “And why did you come to me?” She looked at the girl’s picture and raised the other eyebrow. It indicated that such things as kidnapping were vulgar, and beneath its notice.

  “They were staying at the Riverside Palace. People with that kind of money eat here. If you hear anything that might involve this girl, let me know, eh?”

  Her eyes are the exact shade of glacial lakes, and about as warm. “If I should happen to hear anything, perhaps you can tell me why I would pass it on to you? Why I should even tell you if they were here? My clients value discretion.”

  “So do mine,” I said, grinning. “Come on, Clariel. It’s the high-end clientele like them who bring in the rest. How many of your customers pay for their seats hoping they’re still warm from a god’s backside, or on the off chance they might spot the Perindan Emperor having a pie and peas with his fifty closest sycophants?”

  “There is a difference between people knowing who one’s clients are, and passing on private conversation. My clientele will turn up anyway, Babylon. We serve the best food in Scalentine.”

  “Not all of it,” I said.

  “Really.”