Michael Stackpole - The New World

Nelesquin wanted to curse, but even thinking about it sapped his strength. So much power used so cavalierly. Does he not realize how powerful he is, or does he merely bide his time?

The smile slithering over the lower half of Qiro’s face suggested he served only because it amused him. He would continue to be a problem-more so than he had been already.

Perhaps killing Keles is not the wisest choice. Nelesquin let weariness swallow his smile and the appearance of weakness hide his thoughts. Yes, Keles might be a problem, but he was a problem for Qiro. Nelesquin was certain Keles had no more love for his grandfather than he himself harbored. Perhaps we shall have to see if the dictum that the enemy of my enemy is my friend holds true. If so, Keles Anturasi will be very valuable, and his grandfather will cease to have any value at all.

27th day, Month of the Eagle, Year of the Rat

Last Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th Year since the Cataclysm

Mungdok, The Seventh Hell

Talrisaal and Jorim emerged from the depths of the pool and dried off almost instantly. The landscape shifted, swallowing the pool. A dark, apparently well-trodden, road appeared beneath their feet.

Mungdok itself felt very small, as if it existed no further than they could see in the darkness. With each step along the road, Jorim imagined the shadows gobbling up reality behind them.

The Viruk squatted and sniffed the air. “Something is cooking around the bend.”

“Maybe that’s the nature of this Hell-we’ll be hungry and the meal will always be around the corner.”

“Given the nature of the people sent here, I do not think it is a suitable punishment.”

“Good point.” Jorim led the way down the road and shortly rounded a bend. The landscape opened into a widening valley dotted with thousands of lights. Each light marked a building, and each building was a public house. The structures varied, from dugout hovels roofed with scrap to incredibly ornate places easily mistaken for a prince’s palace.

The Viruk pointed at the first few places. “They have a path, but no door.”

Jorim rubbed a hand over his chin. “Perhaps we’re not welcome there. Maybe we won’t be welcome anywhere.”

Talrisaal laughed. “The only people who have never felt predatory hunger would be unwelcome here. I wish I could say I did not belong, but I have taken advantage of others.”

“By that measure, I definitely belong.” Jorim sighed. He’d used his status as Qiro’s grandson to get cousins to do his work. And, more than once, he’d let his family’s status bedazzle a woman into his bed. On a scale where the most heinous acts were murder and torture, his offenses might barely register, but he certainly was not innocent.

He shivered. “Was anything you did sufficient to keep you here?”

“I hope not.”

“Good.” Jorim smiled. “The faster we get through, the more I’ll like it.”

“Haste will make it more difficult for Nessagafel to find you.”

Jorim looked around quickly. It did strike him as odd that Nessagafel hadn’t come after him. The irregular flow of time might have meant he wasn’t missed yet. He couldn’t count on being that lucky.

“Perhaps he’ll come hunting and get trapped along the way. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

The Viruk bobbed his head in agreement. They hurried on through the town. A couple of the taverns had doors, but while they looked inviting, the travelers continued past. As they progressed toward a luminous silver sea, the establishments became bigger and more spectacular. They found themselves irresistibly drawn to the largest, since it alone allowed access to the sea.

Jorim paused, reading the sign over the open door. “‘The Broken Crown.’ It conjures images. I’m not sure I like them.”

“In Viruka it is ‘Nesdorei.’” The magician’s dark eyes glittered. “It means the place where the mighty have fallen, and not in a good way. It is the spot where the arrogant have been brought low.”

“I’m going to have to study Viruka. Lots of nuance there.”

“Viruka’s time is long past. The world no longer welcomes nuance.”

“A pity, but you’re right.” Jorim stepped back. “After you.”

The palatial Broken Crown was immense in every respect. Whole trees had been stripped of bark and transformed into pillars whose branches supported vaulted ceilings. The golden wood floor appeared seamless, as if a single log had been peeled into a continuous surface. Along the walls, and down the center, massive stone hearths blazed. Rough wooden tables-some set with benches and others with heavy chairs-packed the floor. The vast hall defied any attempt to count tables.

Meat roasted on spits. Servants bearing trays groaning beneath the weight of cups of ale and wine or steaming platters of meat wandered through the endless hall. Occasionally a servant would pause, pass his burden to a patron, then slip into that patron’s place at a table.

“It would appear, Wentoki, that those condemned for using others are made to serve them.”

“That’s part of it, certainly.” Jorim drifted forward, trying to recognize some of the patrons. A couple of the crests seemed familiar. They marked minor tyrants or ministers who had thrived on corruption. Often as not, the patrons wore no crest at all, marking them as anonymous abusers, murderers, and pedophiles whose crimes had gone unnoticed by anyone save the gods and their victims.

“Trying to find an acquaintance probably isn’t the most intelligent strategy.”

“I agree.” Talrisaal’s eyes narrowed. “I would also suggest we do not sit down, do not take a tray, nor partake of food or drink. We can pass through, but if we become involved, we could be trapped.”

“Agreed.”

Jorim’s wanderings brought him close enough to a hearth. The warmth proved inviting, and the scent made his stomach rumble. He began to smile, then he got a look at what the servants were roasting.

A patron stripped off his clothes and bent over. Another thrust an iron skewer through him. The spike completely transfixed him, emerging with a gush of blood at an angle from the man’s neck. Other spikes secured him tightly to the skewer. Two servants carried him to a set of hooks, then bound him up like a suckling pig. Two more people, grimy and glowing with sweat, hefted the man into the hearth. His flesh began to sizzle as he slowly rotated on the spit.

Jorim didn’t know that man, but the one next to him, the man whose flesh was blackened save where cooks had sliced off long strips, looked familiar. “Count Aerynnor?”

The roasted man thrust his hands toward the sound, cracking flesh at elbow and shoulder. “Who’s there?”

“Why are you here?”

“I’m innocent. I didn’t murder any of them. Not my family, not Majiata, not Nirati, none of the others! Help me.”

“Nirati?” Jorim’s stomach knotted. “Nirati Anturasi?”

“Not her, not her. I’m innocent!”

Jorim’s eyes narrowed. He’d accepted that his sister was dead but hearing that news as Wentoki had stripped it of all emotion. It was just a fact-one tempered by her still being “not-dead.” He’d never even wondered about the circumstances of her death. An accident or illness he could have understood. He’d even assumed that much.

But murder?

Aerynnor’s denial trivialized her death. He’d done it, else he’d not have been roasting. The utter lack of remorse in Aerynnor’s voice chilled Jorim’s blood. He was well and truly deserving of his punishment.

The person beside Aerynnor had been carved to the bone. Servants dumped the bones into a pile. The skeleton began to move and collect itself. Several more servants rushed food and drink to it. The skeleton quaffed ale and gobbled down great hunks of meat. Instead of splashing to the floor, the masticated victuals flowed over the bones, sheathing them in muscle and flesh. The transformation revealed the skeleton as female.