The Broken World Book One - Children of Another God by T C Southwell
Jashon preened, and Tranton shook his head.
The governor leant over the Mujar. “What would you say if I offered you half the wealth in the city’s coffers, Mujar? You would be the wealthiest man in the city, able to buy anything you wished; food, wine, women, a house, anything at all. Never ending comforts, the respect and gratitude of all the Truemen in this city, exemption from the Pit and protection from any harm?”
The Mujar shook his head. “No.”
“You’ll never be offered such an opportunity again. Prove that Mujar are good for something.”
“No.”
Cusak straightened. “You’re a fool, as we’ve always known. Useless Mujar scum.”
Jashon said, “I’ll keep trying, Your Grace.”
“I think you’re wasting your time, Doctor.”
“May I ask when the Black Riders will be here?”
“Tomorrow,” the governer supplied as he made for the door. The crowd of advisors swallowed him, and Jashon turned back to his victim, fear compounding his frustration.
“Get chains and pulleys; we’re going to tear this bastard apart,” he ordered.
Talsy trudged along yet another cobbled street, wishing the rat vision had included a map. Twice, she had been forced to run from street thugs, and she scanned the road ahead for danger. Her swollen, throbbing arm drained her energy and made her queasy, and all she wanted was to lie down and rest. The people she had asked for directions had chased her off, probably thinking she was a beggar looking for free healing. At the end of the street was a square with a fountain that had several stone drinking basins around it.
Talsy leant against a basin and sipped water from the copper spigot. It tasted brackish and dead. Gingerly, she unwrapped her arm, revealing a broad red area with a yellow line in the middle of it. Red streaks ran from it up to her shoulder. She washed it, then splashed her face and scrubbed some of the grime off her exposed parts.
Becoming aware of a presence behind her, she turned. The kindly-eyed matron who stood there smiled, and then indicated the septic cut on Talsy’s arm.
“You should have that seen to, young miss.”
“I don’t know where to go.”
The woman pointed down a street. “Just around the next corner, there’s a medical college. Someone there will help you. Have you money?”
Talsy nodded, astonished to be shown kindness in this city where no one seemed to care. The woman smiled again and cupped her hands to drink from the spigot. Talsy thanked her and hastened along the street, wrapping her arm. Around the corner was a grey building with black beams protruding from its walls and a painting of a grey-bearded man in a white robe and blue belt hanging outside the open door. She trotted into a white corridor with grubby marks on the walls and opened the closest door to peer into a room full of desks and chairs. As she turned away, a young man emerged from a door further down the passage and approached her.
“Can I help you?” he enquired.
“Yes, I’m looking for a Mujar. I know he’s here. Where is he?”
The man’s eyebrows rose. “How would you know that?”
“I just do,” she said. “Where is he?”
“Now, just a minute; you can’t barge in here and demand to see the prisoner.”
Talsy pulled a sharp slither of wood from her pocket, a weapon she had acquired in the gutter. She pressed it to his gut and glared at him. “Take me to him, now!”
Evidently her wild eyes, grim air and obvious desperation daunted the youth, who raised his hands and turned away. Talsy gripped his robe to prevent him from running and pressed her makeshift weapon to his kidneys. He led her down the corridor and opened a door near the end, descended a flight of steps and opened another door. They entered a well-lighted room with rows of tables covered with strange paraphernalia and shiny instruments. Cages held rats and rabbits, and a group of men occupied the far corner, some leaning or sitting on nearby tables.
Talsy shoved the youth forward, and he approached the group. A few of its members looked around, one an elderly reprobate with a disgusting yellow beard.
“Where is he?” she demanded.
Her hostage pointed at the group. “On the floor.”
Talsy released him and pushed through the doctors to stare at what lay on the floor. At first, she was not sure what it was, for its resemblance to a man was minimal. A pool of brown blood surrounded a twisted creature stretched between chains. Coils of gut lay snarled beside it, and the wet gleam of exposed organs poked from sliced skin and bloody cavities. Her heart hammered, and she longed for this to be a cruel joke. As if sensing her presence, he turned his head towards her and opened his eyes.
“Chanter!” she whispered. Pain shot through her heart and her bile rose, then the room spun and went black.
Two doctors caught the girl and lowered her to the ground. Jashon raised a brow at the student who had brought her in.
“She seemed to know him, sir,” he said. “Demanded that I bring her here and threatened me with a sharp stick.”
Jashon smiled. “A sharp stick, eh? How courageous our students are these days. Tie her up.” Turning back to his victim, he sighed. “If you were Trueman, I’d have the answer to my dilemma, for then you might feel something for this girl and co-operate for her sake. But you’re Mujar scum, unfeeling, uncaring, and no doubt would not lift a finger to help her.”
The Mujar glared at him.
“I thought not. So, let’s continue.”
Soft groans roused Talsy. She raised her head and discovered that she lay on the floor, her wrists and ankles bound. The doctors crowded around their victim, blocking her view.
She shouted, “Stop it! Stop it! Leave him alone!”
A hatchet-faced man straightened and turned to her. Talsy hated him on sight.
“Ah, you’re awake.” He sniggered. “Our little bandit. I believe you know this yellow scum. Maybe we have you to thank for bringing him into the city. From a clan, are you?”
“No. I am his clan.”
“A one-woman clan,” he sneered. “You must be quite a woman, little girl.”
Talsy realised that she must be careful of what she said and leashed her anger. At least Chanter had stopped groaning.
“Let him go,” she ordered.
“Or what?”
She had no answer for that, and asked, “Why are you torturing him?”
The doctor shook his head in a condescending manner and leant on a table. “Well, to begin with we merely wanted to dissect him, but, having done that, we decided to make him protect the city from the Black Riders.”
“He won’t do it.”
The man with the revolting yellow beard giggled. “Seems everyone knows that except Jashon.”
Jashon snarled, “Shut up, Tranton. He can’t take much more of this.”
“He can,” Talsy retorted. “Obviously you don’t understand Mujar, do you?”
Jashon thumped the table. “Why is everyone such a damned expert on Mujar?”
“I’ve lived with him. I know how he thinks, and he’ll never be forced into doing something.”
“And I suppose you know how to make him do it?”
“Not exactly,” she replied. “Untie me and I’ll tell you.”
At Jashon’s nod, a doctor untied her. She stood up, nursing her wounded arm, and forced a smile. “Now you can pay me ten silver coins.”
Jashon laughed, but Tranton eyed her in a calculating manner. He yanked a purse off Jashon’s belt and held it out of reach when Jashon swung on him.
“The governor offered that bastard half the city’s silver to protect us,” Tranton said. “If you find a way to do it, he’ll doubtless reward you.”
“What if it’s a trick? She looks like a beggar to me.”
Tranton shook his head. “She knows his name.” He tossed the bag to Talsy.
She hefted it and checked the gleam of silver inside, then gave a curt nod. “Now release him.”
Jashon said, “Don?
Tranton’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“If you know Mujar,” she replied, “you know they can’t be made to do anything they don’t wish to. But if you heal him and set him free, he’ll be grateful. When Mujar are grateful, they usually grant a Wish.”
Jashon snarled, “You make him sound like a damned god!”
Tranton nodded. “She’s right. But he may not.”
“That’s a risk you’ll have to take.” She shrugged. “Torturing him is a waste of time. You’ll still be doing it when the Black Riders come, and then they’ll slice you up.” Several doctors muttered, and she added, “He’ll survive, but you’ll all be dead and your city ashes. You’ve got one chance, and I advise you to take it. You’re lucky Mujar don’t hate Truemen.”
“After what we did to him, I doubt he’ll help us if we set him free, girl,” Tranton remarked. “He’s more likely to turn into a bird and fly away.”
“He’ll help those who help him, but he won’t offer help to get it. Until he owes you Gratitude, you have no Wish.”
“That’s what he kept saying,” Jashon said. “Stupid bastard. No Wish! No bloody Wish.”
“What had you done to deserve it?” she asked.
“Why the hell should I have to do anything when he’s at my mercy?”
“You can’t blackmail a Mujar.”
Tranton nodded again, and Jashon turned away, muttering, “Filthy Mujar trash.”
Angry words boiled onto Talsy’s tongue, but she bit them back. She had to appear calm and unconcerned. Tranton ordered the students to remove the shackles and bring buckets of water. Talsy averted her gaze, unable to stomach the sight of Chanter’s injuries. Four students hurried out, and two removed the Mujar’s chains.
A doctor fiddled with him, probably stuffing his insides back into the gaping wounds, she thought bitterly. The four youths returned and poured water over Chanter, and she turned at his soft cry. He convulsed, his back arched and hands curled, his face twisted and eyes screwed shut, lips pulled back from bloody teeth. The manifestation of Shissar filled the room with illusory mist and the rushing sound of a waterfall mingled with the crashing of breakers on a beach.
Jashon commented, “We should have done this before. It causes him more pain than torture.”
Talsy promised herself that he would pay. She longed to hold Chanter and comfort him through his ordeal. Her willpower held out until the third dousing, when she could no longer bear his suffering. She knelt beside him and wiped the dirt and blood from his pain-racked features with the edge of her shirt, amazed by the miracle of his healing.
The wounds sealed as if closed by invisible hands. His twisted limbs straightened as his bones knitted, and his bruises vanished. His fingers and toes grew back more slowly. The raw ends sealed and new fingers sprouted, complete with nails. The strangeness of his healing made some of the Truemen pale and turn away.
No Trueman, even if a Mujar healed them, could regrow lost parts. Those whom the sight did not unsettle leant closer to watch the phenomenon, muttering about ‘image twisting’ and ‘world patterning’. A lump blocked Talsy’s throat as Chanter’s heart began to beat again, a pulse throbbing in his throat. Remembering Dolana, she lifted him as far as she could onto her lap, surprised by his lightness. He warmed, and she held him while he convulsed.
Finally, Chanter’s contortions calmed and his features relaxed. He opened his eyes to look up at her. Another bucket of water splashed over them, and he only shivered. Talsy held up a hand to stem the next bucket, and the student stepped back and put it on a table.
Chanter raised his hands and flexed them, examining his new fingers. The skin was still thin and tender, the nails pink and soft, but hardening. Shissar flowed through him softly now, a faint tingle deep within him. The air swelled as he called upon the Powers, and he rejoiced at their return to his command, filling the room with rushing wind and the faint sound of beating wings.
The doctors glanced at each other, and Jashon scowled. Chanter sat up, leant on a hand and bowed his head, his wet hair hiding his face. He knew everyone held their breath except Talsy, who smiled and wiped the hair from his brow. Raising his head, he looked up at the doctors, his gaze flitting from face to face, meeting hard, unrepentant stares. Raising a hand, he held it out, palm up.
“No harm.”
Jashon demanded, “What does he mean by that?”
Tranton shot him an impatient look. “He won’t harm us.”
“We already know that!”
Chanter turned to smile at Talsy. “Gratitude.”
“Hey, wait a minute!” Jashon started forward.
Tranton held him back. “It doesn’t matter who he gives the Gratitude to. She’s in as much danger as the rest of us.”
Talsy met Chanter’s eyes, smiled and completed the ritual. “Wish.”
He nodded. “Wish.”
“Please will you protect the city from the Hashon Jahar?”
Jashon muttered, “Begging from a damned Mujar!”
Chanter cocked his head, and his smile broadened as he studied the girl. His eyes flicked to the doctors, then back to her. “Big Wish.”
Jashon started forward again. “Big bloody favour we did you, you damned yellow monkey!”
Tranton pulled him back, the other doctors aiding him.
Talsy’s eyes stung. A Trueman would have railed at his mistreatment and cursed his erstwhile tormentors. He would also have made good his escape now, she reflected, or used the Powers to punish those who had harmed him and left the rest at the mercy of the Hashon Jahar. Then again, a Trueman would have given in to their demands in order to escape the pain.
She nodded and murmured, “Big Wish.”
Chanter’s eyes slid away, hidden by thick lashes. “Three days.”
“You bastard!” Jashon roared, clawing his way towards the Mujar. “You’ll protect the city until it’s damned well safe!”
Talsy shot him a hard glance before turning back to the Mujar. “For three days, you’ll protect the city, then you’ll be free.”
“Yes.”
Jashon made inarticulate noises while his peers held him back. Chanter’s eyes fell on the angry red wound on her arm, and he frowned. “You’re hurt.”
She shrugged. “It’s just a scratch.”
The Mujar rose to his feet, and several doctors stepped back, Tranton amongst them. Talsy scrambled up, and Chanter glanced at the men, then turned to the table. He dipped his hand into the bucket of water, took hold of her arm and raised it to trickle water onto it. The air grew misty again, the light twisted in strange underwater visions, and the soft sound of running water mixed with the distant thunder of ocean waves. The manifestation of Shissar vanished, and Chanter released her arm, which now bore only a narrow white scar.
Jashon demanded, “Why the hell did he do that? You didn’t ask for it!”
Chanter said, “Clan bond.”
“Clan...” Jashon spluttered into silence.
Tranton took his arm. “Why don’t we go and tell the governor of your great success? I’m sure he’ll be delighted.” Jashon allowed Tranton to lead him away.
Talsy looked up at Chanter again. “Thank you.”
He smiled. “You kept your promise.”
“So did you.”
“It was your Wish.”
A slither of fear chilled her gut. “Is it fulfilled now?”
Chanter gazed at her with a puzzled air, as if she was a strange creature he did not understand, but something prompted him to try a little longer.
“No. You suffered harm and fled to save yourself. I was merely a distraction. I tried to protect you, and failed. The Wish is not yet fulfilled.”
Relief made her a little giddy. “I’m sorry… about what you went through.”
He picked up his jacket from the table beside him and shrugged it on. “It’s over now. Already the memory dims.”
“Do Mujar have such a short memory?”
Talsy took his hand and tugged him towards the door. “Let’s leave this awful place.”
Several doctors stepped into her path, and one said, “The Mujar can’t leave. He’ll escape.”
Chanter hung back, frowning at them. Clearly he would not allow anyone except Talsy near him now, and she did not blame him. She glared at them.
“He’s granted the Wish and he’ll fulfil it. Unlike you, he has honour. You think that standing in his way will stop him if he really wants to leave? Get out of the way!”
They parted, and she led Chanter through the college and out into the street. The doctors followed, and the Mujar eyed them warily. Outside, the men served as a barrier between Chanter and the populace, which turned out to be just as well. Soon, pedestrians recognised a Mujar and shouted insults, waving their fists. Some tried to get at Chanter, but the doctors fended off the crowd until guardsmen arrived, drawn by the commotion. Chanter scanned the skyline, and Talsy clung to his hand, afraid he would turn into a bird to escape the threat. He pointed at a roofed wooden platform atop tall a grey stone tower.
“We’ll go there.”
The doctors explained the situation to the guardsmen, clearly concerned about the Mujar’s safety. At their request, the troops formed a cordon around Chanter and Talsy. A few people threw rotten fruit and dung while the rest shouted insults. Chanter headed for the tower, the soldiers and doctors who surrounded him casting him hateful looks. Talsy ducked the missiles, and the doctors shielded them from most of it, their robes becoming splattered with dung. They shouted in protest, but the guardsmen could do little to stem the filthy barrage. The gate guard at the base of the tower let them in, and the guardsmen stayed outside to keep the mob at bay.
Talsy followed Chanter up a spiral stairway, her legs aching by the time they reached the top. The tower afforded a panoramic view of the city and the land beyond the walls.
A lookout scowled at them. “What are you doing here?” His eyes narrowed when he spotted Chanter, and he reached for his sword.
Talsy said, “Stop, or you die.”
He hesitated, shooting her an angry, puzzled look.
“He’s here to protect the city from the Hashon Jahar,” she explained, “and people still want to hurt him. He needs to stay up here for his protection, or do you want the Black Riders to destroy this city?”