The Blood Tartan: Quest of the Five Clans Read online

  A stray dog leaped a bench to land before the beggar-girl. A wolf-creature. Black-furred, ribs hinting a diet of kicks and trash, the occasional feast of rat. It whined from a cave of yellow teeth, red tongue. The girl considered, then reached to pat it once upon the head. I flinched, expecting blood. But the creature sighed, sat, ears cocked for the rest of the story. The boy nodded at its good manners and continued.

  “Strife came. Struggle within clans as the ambitious sought to rule over brother, over sister. Then between clans, each seeking supremacy over the people once wind-free. And first we dueled in formal games of blade and chant, hand and art, hoping to limit the spilling of the blood once cherished. But game became war. All our excellence of mind and spirit we turned to slaughter. So the folk died or fled, lessened in number, diminished in the graces of fire and life and love."

  The dog howled. The old sailor wept. The veiled woman wrung pretty hands. The piper trilled a dirge. And all the puppets collapsed in grief to the floor of their rag-tapestry world. I turned to the busy street, wondering what it thought of this madness.

  Nothing, apparently. Passersby gave the show a glance, then turned aside as one does from any city-scene asking coin or pity. Across the street, four dock-workers stood arguing portage-fees and beer. A certain exaggeration to their shouts and stamps made me suspect they play-acted. Still, not every theatre is meant for me.

  A rider in livery of the Magisterium trotted in smart style down the street. His sniff declared he had no time for gatherings of rags, dolls and dogs. A girl hawking fish from a push-cart quickened pace, deciding we had no custom to pursue. A baker in flour-bedecked apron stumbled by, comically fussing with four baskets of bread. He gave the puppet-audience a snort for our lack of commercial energy.

  The boy cared not a fig. He swept fingers through tangled hair, revealing an ear pointed as a lynx's. Then recited in a voice high and clear:

  "After war came silence. Wind swept the empty hills where once we danced sunset, sang sunrise. Villages forgot us, castles crumbled, towers turned to stone shells where lizards scuttled dead leaves. Last we were, lost we were, wanderers we became. A half-people, the shadow-clans, remainders of the glory of -"

  A gun fired beside my head, putting fin to the play. Pity; I would have liked to hear how it ended.

  Chapter 5:

  Bloody battle at world's end, and the back of an alley.

  The bullet passed close enough to make my nose twitch in fear. The thing's been broken so oft I seldom use it for breath. In a life of battle it has stood to the fore, and stands a scared veteran. I owed my nose vengeance. I threw myself upon the shooter.

  The comic baker, of course. There are no real bakers in the world, only assassins snowed in flour. Who truly knows where honest bread originates? The faux-baker pulled a second pistol from a basket and tried again. Something tangled the hammer. A croissant. Excellent with jelly, though the curving shape makes it absurd to pile atop your weaponry. The man had to shake it loose. By then the Seraph stood beside him, and not in milksop mood.

  I drew knife, moved to slice his throat. But two children, three lunatics and a dog were watching. A street of good burghers as well. So I punched instead of sliced. Gagging, he waved the pistol. I pushed it downwards. A modest bang, and the bullet pierced his foot.

  The faux-baker turned and ran with painful hops, choking and gabbling. I enjoyed this sight, as one would. But when I turned away it was to see the stage tapestry of the world collapsing to bloody sheets. An old man lay twitching upon it. The puppeteer, taken by the shot. The girl cried out. She bent over him, as did the boy and the dog. I turned to run. The play was over.

  Across the street, the four dock-workers ceased their faux-discussion. They drew knives and rapiers, rushed forwards as one. I fled knowing I'd be cut down before I reached the next alley. They passed me without a glance.

  I stopped astonished. They charged towards the puppet-show onlookers. The first aimed a wide cut at the veiled woman. She made a quick half-step that sent him tumbling into the rough benches. The black dog threw itself upon the man, snarling. He screamed and rolled, covering his throat. A second attacker lunged to impale the Grey Grace. So help me, the ancient creature parried with the head of Punch, following with a kick. The man gasped and retreated. Punch grinned from her fist.

  Girl and boy knelt over the puppeteer, forming a ragged pieta. Then pulled him to his feet. An old man, small and bone-thin as the children. Hair of matching tangles, white as clean bone. The girl edged him towards the back of the alley, away from battle. The boy scooped up a half-brick, took position beside Dog, Grace and Veiled Terror.

  The four attackers retreated, growling but bloodied. Then the tallest stood to fore. He made a slight bow. This idiot mockery of manners identified him by type: market-duelist. He had arms long as legs. Each appendage now drew a rapier. He waved these for conductor batons. He grinned to the defenders, an insect smiling upon flies. The Gray Grace adjusted her stance, readying Punch.

  Do not ask if I made a step down the street and away. Minds and souls must perform these computations, if only to understand the game. Of course the foot will follow, to test the path. And do not dare ask if I turned back because of a girl’s lunatic eyes, a boy clutching a brick to fend off death. A blue ball with white stars. Do not dare. My knife-throw struck the tall attacker, square.

  And bounced with a clink. His grandfather’s mail-shirt, no doubt. Pity, I was down to one knife plus the foil. Still, it made him turn. He studied me as I approached. A foil is considered a training weapon, too light and easy for proper homicide. Absurd view. What better tool than the one you practice most?

  Market-Duelist smiled his frightful smile, a mirror-practiced gesture. His eyes dismissed me as street ruffian. A promotion up from rag-picker, anyway.

  “This does not concern you, squire,” he offered, and made a wonderful feint with the left blade while striking for my heart with the other. Impressive, doubly so for the reach of those stretched arms.

  He expected me to maneuver left or right so as to have only one blade to front. But really, I would rather face a man giving his attention to two games than one. I parried the strike, ignored the feint, moved closer than those long arms could nicely maneuver. I punched my knife up towards his idiot grin.

  Not a killing strike. He leaped back frog-like, face sliced. The three others turned to me. One lunged, the others sought to circle round. I stepped back. I was weary and wounded. I could not defeat four at once. But I could lead them away. The Gray Grace seized the opportunity to chivy her troops towards the back of the alley.

  An astounding idea came to me then. It astounds me still. I defended women and children and a dog from murder in broad daylight on a crowded street. I could call for help. This strategy would never have occurred except for the strange behavior of the Teary Madman in the warehouse last night.

  “Help,” I tried. Weak, but the concept was new. It felt strange yet liberating. Everyone needs help soon or late. What shame to say? By God, was I not an honest tax-payer in the street? Ignoring recent charges of arson, anyway. God Bless women and children and dogs! I tried again, more spirited.

  “Help!” Glorious.

  The market-duelist cursed, looking about. His glance caught the puppet-audience in retreat. I made a parry-and-strike, forcing him to stumble into the man behind. I cut him across the arm, not bothering with point to chest, the under-shirt being chain-mail.

  Ah, I confess. I was enjoying myself. I detest duelists.

  "I'll kill this fool," growled the man to his fellows. "Go do what we were paid."

  They turned and headed into the dark alley.

  "Help! Citizens! Murderer!" I shouted. No longer a game. I saw no one rush to help, heard no whistle of police or cries of citizen-heroes. Desperate, I pressed the attack. He wind-milled the blades, less in strategy than confidence that it must hold me off. Where were the citizen police, heroes, dock guards and neighborhood constabulary?

 
; "Shilling on the rag-picker," shouted a voice.

  "The other fellow's got two blades," argued another. "Longer arms and blade. Your ragman's dead in five or I'll give you a kiss and a pound."

  "Children in the alley!" I shouted. "Murderers! Help!” Perhaps I was doing this wrong.

  More voices about us. Arguing odds that seemed based on my poor style of dress versus his long arms. I kept my attention on the blades, pressing left and right in alteration to keep him changing focus. Exhausting to us both. And we both bled. I took a deep breath and determine to win, for all my lack of silk shirt.

  "Right, you win," declared the duelist, and stepped back. He lowered his blades. "A touch, I do declare." I prepared to kill but he raised empty hands. Those about us jeered those empty hands.

  The duelist made a show of capitulation, complete with bow. "You're a fine swordsman, Squire Rags." He grinned, jerking a chin towards the dark alley. "Go collect your winnings."

  The onlookers mocked and shouted, demanding we continue. I cursed, pushed past, hoping he'd attack so I could kill. But no, he backed away, turned to disappear down the busy street. The onlookers melted away, entertainment over. I rushed into the alley, leaped over the toppled puppet-show frame, the tapestry of the tattered world. Farther in, the walls grew high and narrow, the light old and weak as winter evening.

  I pressed forwards, expecting to meet the three killers on their way out. Laughing, discussing final moments of the theatre-play. The dog put up a good fight. The old woman was a fierce one, hey? The boy didn't impress much. Pity about the girl.

  I raced past a bend and stopped before a wall. Slime-slick brick, three stories high. No exit to either side. A few barred windows, high and small. And three fresh corpses upon the dark ground. One with throat cut neat as butter by a knife. One with throat opened like a Christmas package of fresh meat. The third fellow's head was bashed to a puddle of completed thought.

  The three attackers. Very dead. No one else at all.

  Chapter 6

  The hero, the mad girl and the broom visit a Shoppe of Fine Art

  I searched their pockets, gaining a knife and two shillings. I wiped familiar stains from my hands, sheathing the foil. I considered my return through the dark alley, drew foil again. I have walked battle-fields in twilight while dogs tear corpses, when crows dance and mate atop screaming horses. Fields where old women wander stooping, cutting, rising up again clutching rings and teeth.

  I never felt as I did walking back through the empty alley. Shadows and ghosts traced fingers along my spine. Eyes watched from below the earth, spied down from the strip of gray sky. I approached the entrance of the alley as Orpheus the exit to Hell. Well, but I didn't look behind. Didn't want to. I looked ahead, to the figure of the beggar girl, humming, brushing the path again.

  I studied her, foil at point. Rags of grey, tangles of blond. Stains of dirt, soot, soup. No splashes of fresh blood. She hummed and danced with the broom. Beyond her the city street buzzed and rattled the day's work-song.

  I moved carefully around her. The ruins of the puppet-theatre remained, an offering for local fire-wood. The world-tapestry lay ripped and bloody; more a prophecy than an offering. Beyond the alley the charred table-top leaned against the lamp post, waiting for me to finish this entertainment and continue our business. I approached, watching for eyes watching me. No one in the street cared a fig for my existence or my table-top. Except the beggar-girl, who followed broom-dragging. We stood together in the sunlight, considering the charred square of wood.

  A trampled bread-roll remained of the faux-baker. I speared it by foil-point, gave the girl the smaller half. Unheroic but heroes in stories don't collapse famished, gnawing their belts. She took the offering, consumed with a breath. Then bent to trace a finger along the carving. She considered, grave as a surgeon. Diagnosis complete, she turned the moon-glow of her gaze upon me. She whispered to herself, happy child in a field of flowers. I bent down to hear.

  "So proud we were, to be us."

  I sighed, nodded. "And now I've seen your play. But I still don't follow the lines." I picked up the table top. It weighed more than an hour past. I continued up the street. I did not hear her slight step, just her mad humming, the wisping of broom-straws on cobbles.

  "What happened in the alley?" I asked. "Who killed those men?"

  She made no answer. Perhaps she wasn't behind me. Perhaps just her broom followed, witch-like. I wondered what shape her ears showed beneath tangles. I considered the shadowed walls of the alley. Easy to miss some hidden door. Probably a trapdoor to some cellar.

  Which might explain the disappearance of the puppet-show audience. But who slaughtered the attackers? And why were hired killers set upon a random collection of street-lunatics? The broom-straws went 'wisp, wisp'. I whirled about, almost striking a sailor with the table-top. He cursed me, measured my weight and scars to his own, and moved on. Wise of him. I stopped, put the burden down.

  The girl swayed, staring at the world as though it were new to her. Perhaps it was. Fresh wonders must abound when your mind is cracked as a broken cup. Experience pours in and right out, leaving fresh astonishment at sky and dirt, a cat stalking a pigeon, a grocer hawking carrots, a cart-horse raising its tail to bugle a fart. I'd seen these things before.

  I considered the street before me. A city mile, each half-point marked by blade, bolt or bullet, to be reached by successfully passing the previous half-way point of death. An infinite line to cross, until infinity ended with the bang of a gun, the jab of a knife. Zeno’s paradox of Certain Termination. I could never reach the end, before I ended.

  Not alone. Ah, well, soon or late everyone needs to ask help.

  "Can you even understand me?" I asked the mad girl.

  She nodded at a cloud. I felt the urge to look up, inquire whether it also understood me. I did not, I am not mad, not a bit.

  "Excellent. I want to carry this burned table-top to a friend’s shop near the bridge. Ah, which sounds a bit mad but is not, is not. Bit more than a mile. Can you walk that far?"

  The cloud received a roll of eyes. Of course.

  "Excellent. Then watch my back as we go. A shilling for you when we get there."

  The girl considered the cloud in grave doubt, as though it promised angel faces but only presented fog. At length she held up two fingers.

  "Fine. One now, and the other upon my safe arrival. Deal?"

  The cloud received a nod.

  I tendered one shilling. She vanished it. On close inspection, her rag-dress possessed a multitude of pockets. And a line of fresh red along the dragging hem.

  I picked up my pilgrim's burden, and we continued down the path. She followed behind, possibly guarding me, possibly staring down the clouds. Wisp, wisp, went the weary broom.

  “Do you have a name?” I asked.

  “Yes.” Definitely a brogue. My maid Elspeth spoke Irish. When I settled Black and re-established relations with the Magisterium, I'd sit in my study, decanter of whiskey beside me and hand her over to El for brushing, bathing, interrogating.

  “And what is that astounding name?”

  There followed a long muttering in Gaelic. Finally, the truth pulled from her by wild horses wielding plyers and thumbscrew: "Flower".

  A strangely plain thing of a name. "Not Rose nor Violet, not Daisy nor Orchid?"

  More muttering. Then, quite clearly, "A rose will prick a dreamer should she pluck too soon, too late, too bold, too fearing. A surfeit of violets may drown a weary heart. Daisies are stupid. What's an orchid?"

  I turned at that, smiting a fresh baker with my table. He swore, I swore. I dropped the table and drew knife, prepared to slice the flour-covered fraud. He reached into a basket and pulled a loaf of bread. We stood so, considering these disparate tools of our intentions.

  I did not slice, he did not strike. He held the loaf out, I weighted the possibility of poison as opposed to the certainty of hunger. I sheathed blade, took the bread. He nodded, walked on. So the
re were real bakers in this world. Amazing place, the world. Who knew?

  I turned to offer the girl half. She stood swaying, staring at a boy posting handbills. Too far away to see the drawing of wild hair, animal mind, broken nose. Squinting revealed a gothic 'Arson’. The rest was guess-work, including the possibly kind blue eyes.

  She took the bread, vanished it. I picked up my burden, we continued.

  "What can you tell me?"

  Dealer peered down. "Beggar. Female. Ten, maybe older. Malnourished. Dirty. Sweeps street-corners looking pathetic."

  I sighed. "I meant the carving on the table-top."

  He continued to study the girl, tapping a chin with fingers. He seemed dissatisfied with his first opinion. She tipped head to side, swaying indifferent to art-critique. Her eyes wandered the shop. Shelves of leather-bound books, tables of painted porcelain, rows of portraits upon the walls. Kings and queens, dogs and knights, jugglers and shepherd-girls, staring from out their reality into ours. They could learn from her. Window sun-beams showed scarce a dust-speck. All was clean, was fine, was art. Excepting the girl and me. We were not clean. Possibly we were art. If so, she was fine. I, not.

  Dealer turned to the charred square of wood. He hummed to demonstrate he considered, not dawdled. In truth we were his only customers, which meant his only audience.

  "Hmm. Burned table-top. Oak planks, previously used in shipping. Yes. Note how each board bears the imprint of a nail in the corner?"

  I growled. "What can you tell of the carving?"

  Dealer copied my sigh. Unoriginal imitation, but he was connoisseur not artiste. He did not know how to create. Nor reach a point. He did know jewelry and art, and the meanings hid within the twists of gold and marble, silver and paint. Blindfold Dealer and hand him a stone, and you would hear it declared a diamond from India, or a pebble from the heel of your boot.