House of the Rain King, page 25
In some places the floor gave way to a lattice of roots, with holes big enough to put a foot through. The holes opened onto deeper, dimmer tunnels below, where other marge-men crawled in the dark.
In crossing one of these root-lattices, Emwort looked down and saw a wide space tinged with dark red. In the midst of that space, winding through puddles of filthy water, there lay an enormous root. Fat and blood-coloured it was, stripped of bark, glistening raw as a wound. Smaller tendrils grew out of it like veins, and the main trunk stretched away into the dark, perhaps toward its origin at the base of some strange and terrible tree. Marge-men crowded all around it. They suckled on the root’s flesh, gnawing and kneading it to draw out the dark oily sap within. At their feet, in the pools, were clutches of round white eggs like enormous frogspawn. And little writhing things moved in the water—marge-infants chittering to be fed.
Emwort and Pelomeda looked for some time into that watery cave. The marge-men did not hurry them here, but watched alongside with a calm that could even have been solemnity.
At last Emwort took Pelomeda’s hand and said: “Will we go?”
It was not that the scene frightened or disgusted him. It was no stranger than a beehive, and no more foul than an ibis’s nest. But that root, that hideous root: it raised in him a feeling like the inverse of grace. A sense of wrongness without name.
The marge-men took them on a path that spiralled slowly downward. The light grew weaker, the ceiling apertures further apart. At last they came to a narrowing where the humans were forced to crawl. The space beyond was cramped and very dim. Before them rose a cradle of ancient roots, in which was held an enormous marge-man with white flesh and rose-red eyes.
It was bigger than a draft horse, bigger than any creature Emwort had ever seen. Its lower body was pale, hairless and corpulent, with the insect-head sitting upon it like a giant carnival mask. One of its mandibles was cracked by some old injury. The roots cradling it had long since grown into its flesh; if it ever moved from this spot again it would surely tear itself apart.
The great thing stirred at their presence. Its milky eyes focused upon them. It spoke.
“You am come to I, Man-Speaker, and hear my words.”
Emwort and Pelomeda looked at each other. Emwort tried to gather his courage, but Pelomeda had always talked better than him, so he was glad when she edged forward and said:
“Greetings, Man-Speaker. I am Pelomeda of Kingfisher Farm, and this is my brother Emwort.”
“Greeting,” said the Man-Speaker. “My words are words of the marge-men. All knowing words, but only I speak.”
Pelomeda nodded, licked her lips. “We… we would like very much to understand you. To know what you want, so there can be no more fighting between us.”
“What marge-men want. Yes. You not know? Tile-folk dream. Tile-folk forget.”
“Please forgive us. Can you explain it again?”
The great white marge-man sighed and settled into its cradle. “No word in Tile tongue. I will try to tell.” It paused in expansive thought. “Animal die, carcass, flies eat. Tree die, rot. Mushrooms grow. Eating what is left over.
“Man make things, give worth. Carve a spoon, knit a hat, write debt on paper. Man-worth. When man-worth gone, leave something behind. Remnant. This, we eat.”
Pelomeda looked at Emwort. “I think I understand,” she said.
“The worth of things—intangible value,” said Emwort. “There is a fascinating treatise on the subject, written by the consort of the first Roanwood Emperor in—”
“Flood come,” the Man-Speaker said. “Man-worth swept away. Great feast for marge-men. All things devoured. But best of all is debt. Debt is delicious.” It rubbed its mandibles together in a gesture Emwort took as equivalent to a human smacking their lips. The other marge-men all echoed it.
“Oh!” said Pelomeda. “That’s what I gave to the one on the bridge. It was one of the strings you’d used for tally beads when we made our donation.”
“Yes. This one.” The Man-Speaker pointed with a feeble claw toward one particular marge-man.
“Oh,” said Pelomeda. “I didn’t recognise you. Hello again.”
The marge-man gave her a nod. The Man-Speaker went on.
“Marge-men waiting this day. Delicious. Jubilee mean all debts destroyed. Since time of first Saint, we are owed this. Ancient compact. But now humans steal debt-carcass away and hide, kill marge-men, keep away.”
“I… I don’t know anything about a compact,” said Emwort.
“You are monk of the Raining-House, are you not?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then giving us our debt! Not snatching away by rope!”
A shock of recognition ran through Emwort. At once he felt stupid for not seeing it earlier. He was sure that if Ginger or Amberlin had seen all he had seen, they would have unpicked the truth much sooner. But it was Emwort’s nature to trust, to accept what he was told.
“The books,” he said.
“What is he talking about?” said Pelomeda. “What was snatched away by rope?”
“Oh, Saints forgive them. It was all a lie.”
“What was?”
“There never were any sacred texts in the temple. Only what you’d expect to find in the lawkeeper’s office: the town debt ledgers. They keep most of the records up in the accounting-house, but there are books kept in Oxbow too. Contracts that don’t involve the Rain House directly would be there. And they’re just as important, of course, because you couldn’t get anyone to go along with the old debts unless all the debts are recovered. I knew—” Here his throat clogged a little—“I knew the jubilee was well-attested in scripture. But I thought—how could I know better than Brother Nonus on a point of doctrine? So I decided I just didn’t understand. But I was right all along. He wants to preserve the old debts and he doesn’t care if it’s doctrinal or not.”
The words gushed out of him like blood from a wound. How could it be Brother Nonus? Surely he had made a mistake—the conspiracy was limited to Frome and the Sparrows, surely? But no. It was Nonus as Abbot who had proclaimed for all to hear that the jubilee would be reversed. It was Nonus, wise and kind Nonus, who with his own hands had given Emwort every sacred text he had ever read.
That same Nonus was ready to scorn doctrine and scripture for the sake of the Rain House’s coffers.
Debt had always been the greater part of the monastery’s wealth. For every sack of grain in the cellars, there would be a dozen more owed by farmers throughout the valley. Not to speak of the indentures’ debts, and the regular income from hiring them out to wealthy households. Debt funded the golden relics, the panoply of rituals, the lavish gardens of augury and prayer. The jubilee would wipe all that away. The Rain House would be left no richer than anyone else.
“Debt books are owed to us,” said the Man-Speaker. “By our right, Rain Monks must give it. You must give it. For this we bring you here and speak our words. Swear on your Saints that you will bring debt books to us.”
“I don’t have that power. I’m only the youngest monk, I can’t—”
“Swear,” said the Man-Speaker, and the other marge-men inched closer. “Or we make recompense in blood.”
Pelomeda put a protective hand on Emwort’s arm. He shuddered, but stood firm. “Alright. Yes, I’ll swear.”
“On Saints…”
“On the Saints. Yes.” He composed himself, for it was not proper to make such a sacred oath in haste. “I swear, by all the Sainted Brides of the Valley of Tile, to do everything in my power to return those debt ledgers to you.”
“Good. You are friend now of marge-men. Compact-keeper.”
One of the marge-men came forward with two treasures of the world above: a small linen poppet and a milking stool. It handed the former to Emwort and the latter to the Man-Speaker.
“Eating,” said the Man-Speaker. It chewed the wooden stool to shreds, letting out satisfied rumbles from deep within its belly.
All the marge-men now looked to Emwort.
“Um. Right, of course.” He dug his hands into the poppet and tore it limb from limb. “Yes. Very tasty.” He threw the pieces on the floor. The marge-men all chattered in what he hoped was approval.
“Compact-keeper,” the Man-Speaker repeated. “Take this.”
It reached into a noxious cranny of its lair and drew out a round shape, which it placed in Emwort’s hands. After rubbing away some mud, he saw it was a very old brass bell.
“Ring,” said the Man-Speaker, tilting its hand back and forth. “Ring near water’s edge. Marge-men will hear.”
“I understand,” said Emwort. “To call you.”
“Yes.”
The bell’s clapper was clogged with silt, but probably with a good wash it would be fine. He looked to Pelomeda.
“We should go, Wort,” she said. “Everyone will be worried about us.”
She was right. But curiosity still tugged at Emwort. Most likely he would never have another chance to question this ancient being. “Please, Man-Speaker,” he said. “That red root, at the bottom of your burrow. I think you wanted us to see it. What does it mean?”
“You not know? Tile-folk forget all. Wish not to remember. But marge-men know.
“Red roots are why marge-men first coming to valley. Stretch far, far under river, under soil. Roots growing from oldest debt of all. Never run dry. Never forgiven.”
Emwort swallowed. “What kind of debt is that?”
The Man-Speaker’s eyes gleamed soft in the dim light. “Blood debt. What else?”
Brywna trudged along the surging bank of the Tile. It was full dark now, and her lantern did little to cut through the rain. Her wounds ached; the bandages she’d hastily wrapped around them were now sodden and rank. She’d walked this stretch of bank three times already. Dimly she could make out Vivien’s lantern ahead of her, slowly bobbing closer. From across the water came the sounds—and smells—of the marge-men trashing the town.
After Emwort and Pelomeda vanished into the water, the rest of them had had to get out of Oxbow. There’d been no other choice. The ropeway had been sagging, and the marge-men were getting restive again. So they’d fled.
Everyone had been waiting on the far side of the bowstream. Brywna had ordered them all, Sparrows and townsfolk alike, to get moving without delay. It would be dangerous to travel at night, but not half so dangerous as staying put. So Welkin and the others had gathered all the locals and driven them in a great herd up the East Road. An entire town’s worth of gormless idiots staring, waiting to be told what to do, and gods’ teeth she was proud that none of them had died. She had gotten them all out.
All except Emwort and Pelomeda.
Someone had to stay behind for those kids. And Brywna had known, before she even thought, that it would be her.
Vivien’s had been the first hand up when she asked for a volunteer to help. So here they were: alone in the bottom of the bowl at the end of the world. Marching the riverbank, calling until their throats were sore; until their voices sounded less like words than the plaintive cries of a nightbird that would never find its way home.
They came together again at the end of the East Road. Vivien was grey-faced and shivering, with hollows under her eyes. It had hit her harder than Brywna would have thought. Yes, she was green, but not that green. She’d seen her share of comrades die. This was different. The Sparrows were under contract to protect those kids. Instead it had been the kids who went down for them.
“Let’s take a break,” said Brywna. “How much oil’ve you got left?”
They couldn’t wait forever. And there was no way of knowing how long was safe, really: they had eight miles of road between them and the Rain House, and any of it could flood at any time. So they had decided arbitrarily on two jars of lamp oil each. That would take them to around midnight.
Vivien held her lantern up. Like Brywna’s, it was burned nearly dry.
“Come on. Let’s find some shelter.”
“I’m going to keep looking.”
“Vivien,” Brywna said, “it’s out of our hands.”
That was always the hardest thing to learn. That you could set yourself at something with all your will, but make no difference, because the outcome was ordained in some other part of the world.
They struggled up the hill together. Beside the road was a small shrine, with a three-sided shelter little larger than an outhouse. They huddled together beneath the eaves. They wouldn’t get any drier, but at least they’d have some respite from the rain.
On the way down here, Vivien had glared at roadside shrines like this one, muttering under her breath about death cults and ritual murder. Now she took to the shelter gratefully. They sat on a narrow bench, flush against the altar with its icons. Seven portraits of seven saints. A few half-burnt candles and a posy of dying hyacinths.
Vivien couldn’t sit still; her hands were shaking. She stood up, sat down again, stamped her feet, spat on her palms. And at last turned toward the altar.
“Fuck it,” she said. “Which one’s the Saint of Mercy?”
Brywna looked up from her own dark thoughts. “What’s that?”
"The monks, they’re always calling on the Saint of Mercy. Do you know which one of these is her?”
Brywna looked at the dinky icons of bird-headed women: a crane, a crow, an ibis, a kingfisher. She was surprised to find that she did know. The night before, Emwort had been going over some ritual and had pointed out all the Saints with their virtues: Wisdom, Fortitude, Charity, Mercy.
“The crow,” she said.
Vivien knelt before the altar. Carefully, she took one of the stubby candles and lit it from the lantern flame. She set it in front of the crow-woman’s icon and leaned back.
“Um,” she said. “Please let those kids be safe.”
After a minute, Brywna joined her.
They knelt there a long time, sheltering the candle with their bodies. Brywna didn’t pray, not really, not running words through her head. But there was something there all the same, in the chill and the quiet that seemed to envelop them even while the rain lashed down outside.
They were there five minutes, maybe ten. The candlelight danced over the crow-saint’s painted face. Then from out of the wind they heard voices. It was the Kingfisher kids, of course, stumbling and pale and slick with river scum, but alive.
31
A DAY’S WORK
In the morning after that dreadful night, the whole Company slept late, even Fitchin. Warlock was up earlier than most. He set to work reviving the fire. The morning was wet and full with birdsong; the sunlight, wan though it was, promised respite after the hard night.
Tarwin was awake too. He came over to warm his hands. Miserable shame was written all over the kid’s face. He was right to be embarrassed of what he’d done—it had been phenomenally stupid. Yet Warlock couldn’t summon any anger over it. He was just glad they’d all got out alive.
At length, Tarwin said: “I’m sorry.” That showed courage, Warlock thought, to lead with the words that mattered most. “And thank you. What you did for me last night… I had no right to it, after I’d been so stupid.”
“Yeah,” said Warlock. He let Tarwin stew a little bit. The tea brewed, and Warlock poured a cup for each of them. He sipped and began to talk.
“One time we had a client by the name of Eutarpos. He was an auction-master and we were his security. One day he met this rich fellow from out of town who wanted to sell couatl eggs, a dozen a lot. He could pay a handsome premium, so Eutarpos said, no problem, they’ll go on the auction block next week. He put all the eggs in a storeroom at the auction-house, but forgot to mention it to us.
“Two days later… you can see where this is going, can’t you? Two days later the eggs hatched. This was in the middle of the bidding on some antique scrolls or something. I’m standing on the balcony keeping watch for thieves, when I hear this screaming from inside. I look in and there’s these winged serpents—“ he made a gesture like a streamer coiling in the air—“flying around, latching onto people’s faces. Newborn they were this long. I swear. So Fitchin’s running around chopping their heads off, Brywna and the Commander are trying to get everyone out the door. Blood everywhere. Knocks has this horrific scar on his back where one of the little fuckers bit him. Anyway, three of the auction-house patrons died. And so the auction-master fired us!
“Point of the story is: you still aren’t the dumbest client we ever had.”
Tarwin gave a drawn smile. “But, top three?”
They sat in silence for a while. The sound of the rain blended with the Sparrows’ snores. Spinney got up, staggered into the bush to pee, and came back without ever opening her eyes.
Tarwin inclined his head toward the Tombs. “They’re quiet this morning. Do you think they might be… really dead? After we took the sigil from them?”
Warlock shook his head. “Fitchin’s been keeping an eye. They’re calmer, but still active. I don’t know for sure how the sigil works, but my best guess is it’ll take some time to wear off. And that could be anywhere from a few days to a few years.”
Tarwin looked a little disappointed. No doubt he had secretly hoped that his pratfall escapade had accidentally cleared out the whole Tombs in one swoop.
“What will you do with the sigil now?” he said.
Warlock reached into his cloak pocket and handed Tarwin the disc. Tarwin looked, turned it over. Both sides were now perfectly smooth.
“I took the words out of it this morning. It would have been better to do it as soon as you showed it to me, but I just didn’t have the energy.”
Tarwin considered this soberly. Evidently he was making a greater effort to think things through after last night’s disaster. At length, he said: “It could do to us what it did to the dead things.”
Warlock nodded. “Sigilry is a lost art. I don’t know what the rules are. Do you have to touch it for the spell to work? Does it radiate out? Does it leach into the soil?” He nodded toward the Tombs. “What if that’s the reason the roses grow so well here?”
