Elizabeth Haydon - Requiem for the Sun

“Good evening, m’lord,” he said.

At first no sound replied except the skittering movements of mice and the flutter of bat wings in the eaves above.

Then, deep within his brain, he heard the voice, words burning his mind like dark fire.

Good evening.

The seneschal cleared his throat, casting his eyes around the black tower room, the darkness impenetrable. “All is progressing well in Argaut. We had another successful day in the Judiciary.”

Very good.

He cleared his throat again. “I will be leaving tonight on an extended voyage. Is there anything m’lord requires before I go?”

The silence swelled around him in the dark. When the voice spoke again, it burned with menace, stinging his ears and the inside of his brain.

An explanation, to begin with.

The seneschal inhaled deeply. “I’ve had some news today that someone who owes me a very great debt, an oath struck on the Island of Serendair before the Great Cataclysm, survived the awakening of the Sleeping Child and is alive.” He let his breath out with the words. “I need to collect on that debt.”

Why ? the burning voice demanded. Send a, lackey .

Wisely the seneschal swallowed the retort that rose, unbidden, to his lips. It was not prudent to enflame the baron.

“That is not possible, m’lord,” he said in a measured, respectful tone. “This is something to which I must attend personally. I assure you, however, the prize with which I will return will be more than worth my absence.”

In your estimation, perhaps. But mayhap not in mine . The anger in the voice seared the inside of the seneschal’s head. If you have, who will procure the slaves? Maintain the terror? Who will sit in the judiciary? Attend to the burnings? Who will fulfill the law ?

The seneschal’s eyes burned red at the edges in response as he struggled against his own wild ire.

“The infrastructure is well in place, m’lord. All of that will be done, and more.” Impulsively he dropped to one knee and bowed his head. When he spoke, his voice carried an excitement that the expansive darkness of the room could barely contain. “But to please m’lord, before I go I will attend to your will. I will accomplish a rash of burnings sufficient to light the sky to a crimson glow that will linger for days! I will move up the dockets, deploy the fleet, set in motion whatever m’lord desires. But I must leave with the tide before morning; I have a contract to enforce.” He raised his eyes to the darkness again. “An oath to make someone uphold.”

The silence echoed around him. The seneschal stared into the endless darkness, waiting.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the voice spoke. It was filled with reluctance, a disappointment that was palpable.

Very well. But be certain to return as soon as you have claimed whatever is owed to you.

The seneschal rose quickly and bowed from the waist. “I will, m’lord. Thank you.”

The dark voice spoke softly, the tone in its words fading into the blackness again.

You may go now.

The seneschal bowed once more. He backed away in the darkness, feeling for the handle of the door. Once he found it, he opened it, stepped through quickly, and closed the door behind him, taking his leave. Of a completely empty room.

It never failed to amaze Slith how much power could reside in a single word, a word that was merely someone’s name.

Particularly Esten’s name.

Now as he followed Bonnard’s quivering form, the rolls of flesh vibrating with each step along the cobbled alleys of the Market of Thieves through which they were traveling, he pondered whether invoking that name had been wise or not.

Bonnard’s sneer, upon finding him shirking his duties in the privy, had melted quickly into an expression that straddled the border between consternation and fear when he had uttered his need to be taken to the guildmistress. Slith cast his eyes down at the dusty red cobblestones and smiled to himself, remembering their exchange.

What—what would the likes of you need to see Esten about’?

Certain you wish to know, Bonnard? That will make you the only other one besides me.

The journeyman had considered the question for the span of ten heartbeats, then scowled, shook his great jowled head quickly, and motioned for Slith to follow him.

Now, as they traveled deeper into the Market of Thieves, Slith wondered whether invoking that name had been the most foolish thing he had ever done.

As a young child he had once ventured as far as the Outer Market, the bazaar of merchants and goodsellers from all over the known world, and undoubtedly parts of the unknown world as well. He had found it to be a place of open-air shops and street booths, of exotic animals prowling the areas near shopkeepers’ wares, of brightly colored silks and bags of pungent spice, the scent of incense and perfume mixed with the slick, heavy odor of the peat fires over which meat was roasting. His mother had brought him along with her in a vain search for a tonic to heal his ailing father; after seeing her pay every coin she had for a bottle of glittering liquid that had proved completely ineffective, Slith understood on an innate level at the age of six how the market had gotten its name.

Never, however, had he been this deep in, this close to the poisonous danger of the Inner Market. He could feel the threat in the air around him; it was somehow heavier here in these back streets, these dark alleys, where the color and pageantry gave way to hidden alcoves and shadowy porticos. The mud-brick buildings, dried to the color of blood, as all of Yarim was, the kiosks of straw and sheets of oilcloth dotting the streets, teemed with secrets.

Gone were the merchants loudly hawking their wares, the chanters and the singers and the screaming carnival barkers. The Inner Market was a place of thick silence, furtive glances, where hidden eyes followed every move.

Slith kept his eyes downcast, as instructed, watching the heels of Bonnard’s hobnail boots. He could feel the gaze of what seemed like a thousand of those hidden eyes on him, but knew that attempting to meet that gaze could be fatal.

Finally Bonnard stopped. Slith looked up.

Before him loomed a tall, wide, one-story mudbrick building, dark from the coal dust that had been mixed with the red Yarimese clay when it was fired. Like most of the buildings in Yarim it was in a state of advanced decay, the coal dust clay flaking off the building’s edifice ominously, signaling a deeper rot. The inconsistent patches made the building look like it was bleeding.

On the door was a crest, the sign of a raven clutching a gilt coin. Slith suppressed a shudder; he had seen the guildmark before, on the day of his indenture, when his mother brought him to the counting house of the Raven’s Guild to be inspected by Esten. The Raven’s Guild in the city center of Yarim Paar was a grand building, housing the largest trade association in the province, a confederation of tile artisans, ceramicists, and glassblowers, as well as smiths of all sorts. The guild also provided an intraprovince messenger service. It was the worst-kept secret in Yarim that they were a formidable coterie of professional thieves, thugs, and highwaymen who ruled the dark hours of Yarim.

And Esten was their undisputed leader.

Cold beads of sweat trickled down his neck as Bonnard opened the door and motioned him impatiently inside. He followed the journeyman’s gesture to an alcove to the left of the door, and watched nervously as Bonnard disappeared into the darkness before him.