Myths of the Fallen City Read online

But what could she do?

  If only she could be as heroic as Jamal have been with that troglodyte. If only she could be as capable in a moment of action… But she had no skill with a knife. The closest thing she had to a weapon was a scalpel and a pair of scissors in her pocketbook. What else might help? A magnifying glass? A spool of thread?

  Sygne almost gasped with the realization of it. There was something she could do.

  She slipped onto the stage, snaking her way through the dancers to get closer to the edge of the pool where her pyrotechnics were tied with thread to the flaming braziers. The gossamer lines were impossible to see in the dim light; her fingers floated through the air until she caught one.

  Then she tugged it.

  4 – The Rescue Attempt

  Jamal was feeling stupid. Part of that was an aftereffect of Bliss’ visit. Everyone knew that deities could do strange things to mortals. Leave them intoxicated and highly susceptible to extreme acts of generosity, passion, or courage—acts that were often self-destructive.

  Self-destructive. That was another good way to describe Jamal’s mood. Everywhere around him people were dancing in a communal, transcendent frenzy, giving in to Bliss’ divine afterglow. Jamal felt a restless energy building in him as well, but there was nothing jubilant about it.

  Yur’s public rebuke had stung him hard. His love song had been good. He knew it was! Jamal wondered: Had the audience assumed his song had been based on a fake story? A bittersweet daydream? Had they assumed there was no way that a fair-skinned noblewoman could fall in love with an Ardhian? No. Lady Nemeah of Gjuir-Khib had loved him—and he had loved her too.

  Again and again, Nemeah’s parting words came to him. ‘Just bring good to the world. Just bring glory. Even if the gods were never watching, act like they are.’

  When he had first met Nemeah, she had been as young as Ilona was now. Ilona was more waifish, with raven-black hair, but the similarities still weighed heavily on his mind.

  Nemeah.

  ‘Just bring glory.’

  Jamal clenched his fists and took a step toward the pool. If he tried to save the princess, he’d only succeed in adding his own death to Ilona’s. But that might be worth it to see the smirk melt off of Yur’s face, even if only for a moment.

  The drums had turned his pulse relentless. His head was pounding—his vision going red. He swerved between revelers, their shadows passing over his grim face.

  He almost didn’t notice the first explosion.

  People stopped dancing around him, and greens and yellows and oranges flared to life around the Kritans’ glowing pool. The drumming ceased as a new explosion cracked the air, spewing forth a peacock’s display of glowing purple.

  The crowd shrieked. Women held their heads. Some partygoers dropped to their knees, but most simply began to flee. Jamal had to jostle hard against the surge of bodies.

  A nearby courtier shouted, “It’s Bliss! She’s come to teach us another lesson!”

  Jamal knew better. He caught a strong smell of sulfur, and there was a thick haze of smoke in the air. Deities left behind rapturous afterglows, not noxious byproducts. This was something else. But what?

  Jamal found an armored Issulthraqi soldier standing like a rattling breakwater among the crowd. Jamal stood close to him, and the soldier said, “Bliss has come back to take that pretty girl. She’s going to turn her into a beautiful constellation!”

  Jamal nodded at him. “What if she turns the rest of us into beautiful constellations too?”

  “No…” The soldier’s face drained of color.

  “You have to get out of here before that happens,” Jamal said. “I’ll stay and try to save her. Will you give me your sword?”

  The soldier stared vacantly. “You want to be turned into a constellation?”

  Jamal shrugged. “I’m a Gjuiran. We’re strange like that.”

  The Issulthraqi unbuckled his belt and scabbard and eagerly handed the whole thing to Jamal.

  Jamal didn’t turn to watch the soldier run; instead he took his tortoise-shell lyre and slipped his forearm through the strings to create a makeshift shield. The crowd had pushed its way past him, and the path to the princess was now clear.

  Suddenly a rescue attempt didn’t seem quite so suicidal. But it would certainly be glorious.

  Jamal unsheathed his borrowed sword, clenched his teeth, and rushed forward.

  ***

  Sygne’s pyrotechnics had worked perfectly. Within moments, most of the Kritan attendants had fled the stage. Sygne glanced around for Sessuk. He was the one person who knew about her fireworks—who might have realized what was truly happening. But Sessuk was nowhere to be seen, and no one tried to stop her as she ran onto the narrow bridge leading to the princess. The planks swayed beneath her, and the nearby explosions were loud enough that Sygne flinched at them, even when she knew they were coming. But she never came too close to losing her balance. She didn’t look back—didn’t check to see if she was about to be speared in the back by a guard. Instead she kept her eyes locked on Princess Ilona.

  As Sygne pulled at her chains Ilona protested, “What are you doing? Stay away from me!”

  Sygne took a moment to calm herself before she spoke. “I don’t know you, and you don’t know me. But I have to assume you don’t really want to die for the amusement of these people.”

  The princess blinked, and her veneer of haughty outrage broke apart. “I don’t. Not truly.”

  “And there’s nothing wrong with that. Nothing wrong at all. Now let me just work on—”

  Another hand pulled the manacles from the other side of the rack. A sword flashed through smoke, moving close to slash the princess’s wrists.

  “No!” Sygne thrust her fist through a gap in the scaffolding and struck the man in the chest.

  “Ow!” he cried. “Sygne! What are you doing?”

  It was Jamal. Sygne shouted back at him, “What are you doing?”

  They yelled simultaneously, “I’m trying to save this princess!”

  “Oh,” Sygne said. Again Jamal brought his sword up to one of Ilona’s shackles.

  “These chains are just gold,” Sygne advised him.

  “I know!”

  “Use your sword to—”

  “I know!”

  Jamal pressed the point of his sword into one small link in the chain and began prying it apart.

  “Wait,” said Ilona. “I have a key.” She looked to the pendant chain that descended beneath the collar of her shift. “We all have keys. The shackles are just for show.”

  With trembling hands, Sygne pulled the necklace free, found the key, and tried to fit it into the manacle on the princess’s left wrist. The fireworks had ceased, but a haze of smoke hung over the pool. Sygne hoped it would provide some cover.

  “Hurry, Sygne,” Jamal said.

  “I’m trying…”

  One Issulthraqi soldier approached the bridge from Jamal’s side. Jamal called out to him, “Stay there! We’re saving the princess… so that we can kill her properly later.”

  A muscular Kritan drummer stepped close to the pool and helpfully suggested, “Throw her in the water! I’ll ring the bell so she can die right away.”

  Jamal muttered, “The maniacs are closing in.”

  Another voice bellowed from behind Sygne. It was the General himself. “Stop that!” Yur demanded. “That’s my oblation! Guards!”

  Jamal swung his sword at the last manacle clamped to Ilona’s right ankle. She pulled her foot loose, but a cuff and a stub of chain still held to her ankle.

  Yur squinted through the smoke and pointed at Jamal. “You! You’re that awful musician. Stop him!”

  Jamal puffed his chest. “I am no mere awful musician. I am Jamal, the Singing Swordsman. The Demon of Uhl-Arath. The Lion of the Blood Coast—”

  “Don’t taunt them!” Sygne cried.

  Jamal glanced around the pool. “They’re only four gu
ards here. I can take them. Prepare to be impressed!”

  “That’s what you said about your singing.”

  “Come on!” Jamal turned the hanging rack and swung it out of the way so that Ilona and Sygne could brush past. They ran across Jamal’s section of the bridge, toward the south side of the courtyard. A single Issulthraqi spearman stood in their way.

  Jamal brandished his sword. “Back away. We want to protect this fair princess. Do you have the honor to let us pass?”

  “Don’t chat with the man!” Yur shouted from the other end of the pool. “Skewer him!”

  Jamal shrugged at the Issulthraqi. “Come on, friend. I’ve earned money as a soldier. I know what it’s like. You don’t want to risk a fight with me, just to save a party favor.” Jamal glanced back at the princess. “No offense.”

  Three more soldiers tromped along the edge of the pool, their armor clattering loudly as they rushed in to join their hesitant comrade. Jamal took advantage of the distraction and tugged the soldier’s spear. The Issulthraqi was caught off guard—and pulled off balance. He tumbled into the pool.

  Jamal still held the soldier’s spear. He pointed with the weapon’s butt-end toward the statue of Bliss. “That way!”

  In the waters behind them, the soldier came up splashing and screaming. The sounds he made were bloodcurdling enough to halt the other Issulthraqis in their tracks. Jamal ran ahead. Sygne and Ilona followed him, weaving between empty tables that were littered with abandoned drinks and food.

  Sygne protested, “But there’s no exit that way!”

  “Do you want to run toward the spearmen?”

  The eager Kritan drummer was rushing to block their escape. Sygne grabbed a mug full of ale and chucked it at his head. The Kritan blocked it with his drum, which made a beautifully resonant bong as the mug bounced off of it. He proudly beamed and lowered his drum, just in time for Sygne’s second mug to smash him squarely across the forehead. She huffed indignantly as the man fell to the ground. “Perhaps we should stay here and fight. We’ll be cornered over there.”

  Jamal scowled. “Who do you think is in charge of this rescue?”

  “I thought I was!” Sygne said.

  The trio of soldiers had regained their composure (and collectively decided to abandon their wet companion). They were weaving between tables, advancing quickly.

  Princess Ilona tugged at Sygne’s arm. “There are passageways hidden behind the statues. We can escape there.”

  “Don’t you see, Sygne?” Jamal asked. “The Specularity don’t want this show to end just yet!”

  They ran toward the statue of the love goddess formerly known as Ulthal. The Issulthraqi soldiers gained on them with each second. Despite her small size, Princess Ilona wasn’t particularly nimble or fast. Sygne had to pull her by the wrist to make her keep pace. The soldiers were nearly at their heels as they reached the statue. An immense cone of sand was piled up over Ulthal’s legs. A series of planks ran up the slope of sand, creating a ramp that led to the platform at the statue’s waist.

  At the foot of the ramp, Jamal turned to face the Issulthraqis. They squared up into a small phalanx with three spears pointed at Jamal’s chest. Through gritted teeth, he told Sygne, “I’d rather not kill these men. Not if I can help it.”

  Sygne took the spear from Jamal’s shield hand. “I have an idea. Lure them up onto the ramp on your right side. When I call, run as fast as you can toward me.”

  Sygne beckoned for the princess to follow her up the ramp. At the top of the incline, Ulthal’s spare breasts were balanced on their nipples. They were huge hemispheres of stone—nearly as wide across as Sygne was tall—but they were stabilized by rope-slings and chocked in place with wedges of wood. Behind her, Sygne could hear the sound of metal clashing together, coming closer up the ramp. Jamal had done well against a caveman—and at least this time he had a sword—but how long could he last against three opponents attacking at once?

  Sygne used her spear to chop at a set of ropes holding one breast in place. The lines snapped quickly, and the bowl of stone immediately wobbled. Sygne kicked away the chocks; then she jammed her spear into the base of the hemisphere. The princess had just made it to the top of the platform, and she stared, slack-jawed and struggling for breath, as Sygne worked. It was obvious that she wasn’t going to help. Sygne couldn’t tell if she was intimidated by the huge wobbling stone, or just stupefied by the profane intimacy of it all.

  Sygne ignored her and heaved at her makeshift lever. “Now, Jamal! Run!”

  The platform creaked as the massive stone shifted and ground itself against sagging planks of wood. There was a growl and a groan; then the piece of severed statuary gave itself over to gravity.

  “Whoa-ahhhh!” Jamal screamed as he saw what was tipping toward him. He was quick enough to leap aside as the stone struck the ramp and sprayed pieces of shattered wood everywhere.

  The pursuing soldiers turned and ran as that giant stone rolled after them. They barely avoided being crushed as the stone came to a thunderous rest at the foot of the statue.

  Jamal sheathed his sword. “Great idea, Sygne! I never would have thought to cut through that boulder holder.”

  Sygne nodded. Down on the stage, she could see General Yur going apoplectic. He was flailing his fists and stamping his feet, and a new clutch of Issulthraqi soldiers were milling about around him. “Let’s find that passageway,” she said.

  Jamal bowed quickly to Ilona. “Princess, if you would do the honors…”

  5 – The Bell Tolls

  Dark. Cold. Wet.

  Jamal glanced around at the vaulted cavern that had become their hiding spot for the last hour. They were surrounded by tall, six-sided columns of gray rock. The slanting walls were made of them. The ceiling was a staggered pattern of hexagons. The basalt columns were tightly packed together, like bundles of timber, and it was easy to imagine a massively powerful deity paring the stones into poles and fitting them together to make his subterranean lair.

  Dark. Cold. Wet. And eerie.

  Princess Ilona had mentioned that these caverns ran everywhere beneath the palace—to the Pool of Transfixion or to the seashore below the cliffs. But for now they had chosen to rest before venturing farther into the labyrinth of tunnels. Princess Ilona sat on a stubby column with her arms wrapped around her knees. She shivered in her papyrus-thin dress, and Jamal could hardly stand it. After years of professional adventuring, he was quite accustomed to spending long nights in cold, hard places, but he felt strongly that a royal lady shouldn’t have to bear such things. He gave Ilona his vest, making sure to flex the muscles on his bared chest as he handed it to her.

  She took the quilted garment and smirked at him. “Thank you. But don’t presume I’m indebted to you.”

  “I would never presume that, Princess.”

  “Good. I know how you Gjuirans think.”

  Sygne was kneeling by one of the puddles of ghostly blue water that helped to light their cave. She asked, “What is she talking about?”

  Jamal kept flexing as he turned to her. “In Gjuir-Khib, we believe that every person has a role in life.” He tapped his fist against his bulging chest. “I, of course, am the dashing hero. Reluctant to take up the mantle of warrior, but also brave and keen once adversity has been thrust upon me. If I play my role well, I can bring good to the world. And bring glory—which honors the Lords of the Sky.”

  “You mean your gods? The Specularity?”

  “Yes, Sygne.” Then Jamal gestured to the princess. “In the gods’ great story, Princess Ilona is the beautiful damsel. She’s supposed to be alluring and demure—and also gracious.”

  Ilona rolled her eyes. “He means that I owe him a kiss. I owe him nothing.”

  “She’s right,” Sygne said.

  Jamal asked, “Would it really be so bad to give me a peck on the cheek?”

  Sygne stood up. “If everyone has their role, then who am I?”

&nb
sp; Jamal considered this. “You… I hadn’t thought about you, Sygne. The helpful citizen? That might be you. The comedic relief? You’re amusing. But not in a witty way.”

  Sygne grinned. “Maybe I’m the hero too?”

  “Hmm? No, no. Maybe you’re my ‘plucky sidekick.’ That’s possible. At least until we complete this rescue and part ways.”

  “You Gjuirans,” Ilona muttered. “You’ll chat a person’s ears off, talking about yourselves.”

  Sygne said, “Isn’t that a bit depressing to think that these ‘higher powers’ stick you into a role and you have to play it out for the rest of your days?” Sygne nodded to Jamal’s lyre. “Aren’t you trying—”

  “Sygne. You misunderstand. You can change your role, if you work hard enough to do it. For example: I used to be a slave. That was my role, through my entire childhood. At least the parts I can remember. But in Gjuir-Khib, boy slaves—when they come of age—can choose to join the army and earn their freedom. Most don’t. They settle into their roles because slave recruits are sent off to the harshest, most deadly fronts.”

  “Where did they send you?” Sygne asked.

  “To the tin mines of Uhl-Arath. A clan of cavemen had been squatting in those hills for three years. We had to go from cave to cave, cutting them out. It was not a pretty fight.”

  “That’s why you hate troglodytes.”

  “No, Sygne. I hate them because they’re sadistic, inbred, cannibalistic savages.”

  Sygne shivered.

  “Are you cold too?” Jamal asked. “I could offer you my pants…”

  “No!” Sygne and Ilona shouted together.

  “If I was shivering, it was because of your story,” Sygne said. “I can tell that you’ve had a hard life. But you seem like an optimist, in spite of it.”

  Jamal bowed. “Well, thank you. I’m glad to see one lady here is gracious enough to appreciate my charms. But let me know if you get cold, Sygne. After all, your legs are quite bare.”

  “I think I’ll be all right.”

  “Yes, you have that thin layer of blubber under your skin... To keep you warm.”