The God Tattoo: Untold Tales from the Twilight Reign Read online

  We slipped out through the servant’s entrance of our hide and made our way through the shadows until we had reached the adjoining building. Despite this being my district I knew almost nothing of the place and had never seen the door even open. Some said it was a gentleman’s club but even the best of those tended to witness duels and other foolishness that attracted the Watch’s attention, this one had seen nothing of the sort and even its name was a mystery to me. It was a large building of three storeys that extended a long way back with a recessed and reinforced front door. Whatever breed of gentlemen constituted the members, they didn’t encourage visitors.

  The door was ajar when I reached it. I entered cautiously, one hand on the iron-ring knocker to keep it silent, and found myself in some sort of reception area. A desk faced the doorway, unmanned, while a luxurious scarlet sofa stood up against the right-hand wall and a wide staircase led up to the first floor. There a single painting on the wall, a romanticised scene of a coastal village, but no mirrors or other adornments; just expensive oak panelling and a polished parquet floor. It did indeed seem to be some sort of private club, but a wealthier one than to be expected in my district. I knew for certain it was not one for any of the district’s main trades, no dock guild or anything of the sort, but far from the richer parts of the city where the elite passed their days.

  Feeling a pang of concern for whoever normally manned the desk, I wasted no time in heading for a pair of oak doors at the foot of the staircase, recessed slightly so as to be concealed from the entrance. With my bow at the ready I crept inside, easing the door open with my sword-tip and one boot advanced to catch it being slammed back. Inside, the impression of luxury was continued; a large welcoming fire and lamps illuminating an orderly reading room, but deserted.

  With no signs of disorder or violence there, I abandoned the room and headed past the staircase to the more unassuming passageway at the end of the hall, one that looked like a servants’ entrance to me. It was dark, but faint light flickered from around the corner at the far end. It outlined three doorways down the right-hand wall, most likely storerooms and all latched. I crept down the passage, keeping clear of each doorway and walking as silently as I could. At the corner I eased around it, pistol-bow first, to see a half-closed doorway four yards off.

  Through the gap I saw my quarry, or rather a long cloak that looked like the one I was after. As I reached the door I realised it was a kitchen as the smell of fried onions and garlic wafted out, but there was also a scuffling sound like boots brushing a stone floor. With his back to me his long cloak obscured whatever he was doing, but just as I pushed the door open he put his arm out to shake it free of the cloak. In his hand was a blood-stained dagger.

  I shouted for him to stop, but no sooner than the sound had left my throat he bolted – not even pausing to look around as someone taken unawares might but darting away with sudden, surprising speed. I fired as he disappeared through a doorway on the far wall, out of surprise as much as anything, but in my haste I missed. He vanished around the corner in the next heartbeat, leaving a twitching man splayed over a long table, his exposed chest pin-cushioned with half-a-dozen ornate daggers. I felt a red mist descend over my eyes and raced to pursue the monster, charging after him into a corridor lit only by the moon shining through a far window.

  Catching my shin on a low table that stood just around the corner, it was fury rather than athleticism that saw me upright to the other end – a mad violent scrabble where I careened from one wall to the other before reaching the window. My foe was already halfway out by then so I leaped blindly, grabbing at anything I could.

  Fingers closing around the hem of his trailing cloak, I crashed in a heap below the window. I hauled back as best I could, body braced against the wall, and felt a great lurch as the man was wrenched back against the wall. My fingers sang with pain as I took his full weight, but a moment later the clasp popped open. The cloak billowed up in the moonlight like a vengeful ghost while a crash and clatter came from the alley below. A few moments later my sergeant pounded up the corridor behind, hauling me up but I hardly noticed. In my eyes the cloak hung on the air by a taunting breeze as I dragged it towards me to grip the top end – the silvery moonlight shining down onto one the broken clasp there. The broken clasp in the shape of a bee with wings outstretched. The king’s bee device; worn by all in his employ.

  With a roar of anger I threw myself through the window without a thought to safety. I fell heavily, a six-foot drop on the other side, but rage eclipsed the pain in my knees as I saw a door bang shut across a small courtyard. A woman shrieked from within the room and when I staggered to the doorway she pointed with mute terror to the right-hand choice on the far side of her kitchen. This brought me to a storeroom and a brief glimpse of my prey as he half-emerged – turning as I entered and dragging the door shut after him.

  I gave a wordless bellow of triumph. He had to have run himself into a corner, most likely down in a wine cellar. There’d be no exit there and he’d retraced his steps too slowly. I stopped a moment to catch my breath and cock the pistol-bow I somehow had managed to retain. My short-sword I had dropped somewhere so I drew my nightstick instead. It was a poor alternative, but better than a dagger and capable of cracking the thickest of skulls.

  Forgetting to wait for my sergeant I wrenched the door open. No sooner had light crept through the breach than a curved blade lashed out, but I was ready for it and deflected it into the doorframe. With the knife trapped I launched myself forward and put the boot in, in the finest traditions of the Narkang Watch.

  With a strangled squawk the man crumpled over my steel-capped toe and clattered backwards. For good measure I punched him in the side of the head and smashed him back down the short flight of steps again. He hit the dusty floor hard and collapsed in a heap.

  Taking no chances I fired the fresh bolt into his thigh – just in case he thought me stupid enough to have never seen a man play dead before. I was rewarded by a scream of pain and the man scrabbled at the floor, crawling weakly towards the back of the cellar in a pathetic effort to escape. I didn’t follow him yet, the cellar was a small one and contained no hiding places so I was happy to let the sick bastard fear the worst. My fury turned cold and quiet as I sat on the steps, reloading my bow before fetching a lamp from the storeroom. He squirmed face-down on the cellar floor, sobbing and howling in a puddle of what wasn’t just blood. The more he wept the greater my contempt became – he was nothing but a coward who couldn’t stand a tiny measure of the brutality he’d meted out.

  Anticipating this moment all evening, I’d expected better. The measure of a man is how he acts when he’s down and beaten, but this wretch was worse than a cowardly child. As I watched him wriggle through the dirt the disgust welled up inside me so powerfully I raised the bow again; bending to temptation before oaths I had sworn years before returned to haunt me. The lamp illuminated the cellar with a fair glow and my eye was inexorably drawn to the wooden pillars that supported the low roof. In the lamplight, the pillars with their diagonal supports and my black mood, I was reminded of a gallows and that was enough to stay my hand.

  ‘Now hear me you piece of shit,’ I struggled to say, my throat thick with rage until I took a few more breaths. ‘I got eight more bolts here. If you don’t explain a few things right now I’ll get some more practice in – then maybe go fetch one o’ your knives till you start talking.’

  My hand trembled at the horrors the man had inflicted, as well as the cruel disdain of his affected concern. The bile rose in my throat and I tasted blood on my lips as I bit down in an effort to stop myself pulling the trigger. Evil was the only word I could muster and nothing in my years of these streets could compete with the scenes this man had left in his wake. I needed a reason, sane or not, for the indiscriminate violence he had inflicted. My hatred demanded that, demanded I know the full pathetic and contemptible reasons that had led him to do what he’d done. After years of seeing the worst of what folk could do t
o each other, I still wanted to believe there might be a reason behind all this madness. The alternative frightened me, it still does.

  He said nothing and simply lay in a broken, wretched heap as I moved closer. I felt the revulsion tighten my finger as it did my throat. My vision darkened, my rage becoming a fierce pain behind my eyes and when the moment cleared I saw his body jerk in mortal agony.

  For an instant I was sure I had fired. Then my senses returned and I spun around. The bow was smashed from my hand, bolt unspent but now forgotten. I didn’t even attempt to raise my stick as a gleam appeared at my throat.

  ‘Dear fellow, that expression is most unbecoming.’

  ‘But you— I . . .’ I stammered, unable to connect my thoughts to words of any form.

  ‘But you thought that was me?’ Nimer cocked his head, sword never leaving my throat. ‘I’m hurt; depravity is not among my “special talents” and if it were, you would have not caught me so easily. That man is a clerk to the City Council, just one of many and unremarkable in almost every way. Oh my friend, hundreds pass that window each day, but you only had a mind for me. Perhaps I should be touched you keep me so close to your thoughts.’

  He wore a wide-brimmed hat that gave his face a sinister shade, but it was nothing compared to the sudden, unnerving smile he gave me. His cold, executioner’s expression blossomed into some mad, cruel humour and my skin chilled at the sight.

  ‘You killed him,’ I managed to gasp. ‘Why? You killed my damned prisoner! Why?’ My anger returned and at last I found some strength again. ‘You executed him before he even stood trial! For all that horror he gets a quick, clean death? He deserved to hear the whole city curse his name before he went to the headsman, the king’s justice—’

  ‘The king’s justice has been done,’ Nimer said sharply, cutting me off, ‘and there will be no word of his identity ever revealed, do I make myself clear?’

  ‘What? How dare you dictate my job to me? The Watch is the king’s justice, not some sanctioned assassin . . .’

  ‘Oh my dear Captain,’ came his cool, mocking voice. ‘I’m most appreciative of your help in this, and let me assure you your efforts will not go unrewarded,’ he said, holding up a hand to ward off my protestations, ‘but for a man of such insight you are extraordinarily naive.’

  To my look of bewilderment he merely laughed and sat back on the steps, sword resting against the wall within easy reach. He pulled a silver cigar case from an inside pocket and selected one, then offered the case to me. Defeated and baffled, I took one of the slender cigars, all thoughts of violence evaporating from my mind.

  I numbly permitted Nimer to take the lamp and light both cigars from the flame. He puffed ponderously at his, the satisfied air of a man whose onerous task was now complete, while I stared and tried to form coherent thoughts.

  ‘If you want this kept quiet, why are we enjoying a cigar while the crowds assemble?’ I asked, sinking down onto an oak casket. ‘Someone must have heard that woman scream, or she’s gone to fetch help. For that matter, where’s my sergeant?’

  Nimer waved his cigar dismissively, leaning back with the poise of a man utterly at ease. ‘Oh, Coran will keep people away, I left him back there somewhere.’

  ‘Coran? The king’s bodyguard?’

  He smiled as if to a child. Offering the silver case once more, but closed this time, he showed me the engraved emblem and initials. A bee with initials inscribed on the wings. Emin Thonal – King of Narkang.

  My throat closed dry. I stared first at the case, then him, then the corpse – all in a drunken haze as the world lurched treacherously beneath me. Nimer nodded at the look on my face and removed his hat, pulling off the eye patch to reveal a healthy eye as cold and arresting as its twin. He scratched at the thin beard and moustache.

  ‘Strange how a few tweaks to one’s appearance can make all the difference, especially to people who’ve only ever seen you at a distance. I was a little concerned I might be too old to wear a silly little beard like this, but I suppose no one is likely to mock a King’s Man for affectations of youth.’

  ‘This has happened before, hasn’t it?’

  ‘Oh yes. Not so dramatically I’ll grant you, but my city grows so quickly and chaotically it is by far the best place for madmen to hide. People are missed less often and neighbours rarely know whom they live next to. And that is precisely why these murders were not the deed of some public servant but a vampire. One you caught and killed all alone.’

  ‘I, I don’t understand.’

  ‘Very well, I shall explain. I am building a nation and it grows at a rate I can barely control,’ he smiled frostily, ‘despite my special talents. We do not have the luxury of a common heritage, only our own endeavour and unity. We cannot afford to wonder whether a killer walks amongst us, to live in fear of our own kind, not when we have enemies out there who would exploit such a thing. The city is one step from revolt each and every day; this you know only too well. But when plagued by vampires, werewolves, daemons and the like, we know our enemy.

  ‘Such creatures are rare in these parts, most of the time nothing more than a story to keep the little ones in hand. But they are not the only monsters in this Land and it’s those that are indistinguishable from men you meet every day that are truly terrifying. A vampire is a banner to the population, as the Gods or the tribes of man are. You can see my busy bee waving from half the flagpoles in the city, but it is my enemies that fly the most important banner.’

  ‘What madness was this?’

  ‘How to define madness?’ his voice hardened suddenly. ‘The man believed he was possessed by demons, that they drove his actions. His research into demonology was extensive, if pursued with a less-than-scholarly instinct. Perhaps he was correct, perhaps not. Best that point be down-played.’

  ‘And the runes?’

  King Emin hesitated, looking thoughtful for a moment before continuing.

  ‘Unimportant. The reference was an obscure one to a false demon cult that once had great power, but is now extinct. It crops up in several of the more deranged works, but has failed the test of time and research. Again, that is something you will not speak of again.’

  ‘And what if I won’t keep quiet?’

  ‘Then I will have sorely misjudged you. This clerk will be remembered as a spy, from Tor Salan or the Circle City perhaps, it doesn’t matter. His memory will be reviled as you wished, just not quite for the reasons you’ve witnessed. What does matter is that truth is a weapon. Your job is not just to uphold the law, but also to protect this irrational and dangerous population from itself. My people’s own imagination can cause them more hurt than they, or even you, could appreciate. You saw that when the vigilantes started to beat people to death. Folk need few enough reasons to panic and whenever that happens, someone gets hurt.’

  He reached out a hand. ‘So, are you with me?’

  I stared numbly at the offer, knowing I was defeated. And for my sins I took it and all it implied; realising it was the truth I sought, as perverse a reason as that may seem. I had spent my life hunting transgressors, driven to put a name and reason to every crime. To illuminate the darkness for those who needed protection in my own small way.

  Now I saw the truth from a king’s sight – how he protects his realm, how he needs his own truth in the void he inhabits. Cloudy and shifting, there was a light to be found there, but sometimes uncovering it would only ever be a disservice to the people I served.

  That has been my life ever since. Now, as I feel Death’s hounds draw ever closer, I am prepared to kneel at my Last Judgement and hear His words – content in my choice for the sake of others.

  It took a killer called Nimer to show me who I was. Many years later I thanked him for it. He merely smiled in that way of his.

  THE GOD TATTOO

  Daken’s stomach growled, long and angry.

  ‘Piss on this nation o’ cowards,’ he muttered, ‘so fast to surrender there’s no pay for an honest man.’


  ‘Tole you we should’ve joined the other side,’ added his nasal-voiced companion.

  Daken glared at the man trailing him and gave the reins of the horse he was leading an irritated twitch.

  ‘An’ I told you, Yanal, to shut the fuck up about that.’

  The smaller mercenary shrank from the look and pulled his coat tighter around his body. He shivered and greasy trails of unkempt hair fell over his face like a veil. Underneath that was a streak of mud across Yanal’s face, pasting his hair down onto his forehead. He’d tripped a few hours back, trying to keep up with the pace Daken had set, and ended up lying flat on the muddy road.

  That had been Daken’s only laugh of the day, and the past few as well. Yanal was getting worried; he could see a familiar set to the big man’s jaw and knew it boded badly for the next person to piss him off. They’d not been comrades for long, only a few months, but any fool could tell a penniless and hungry white-eye was a dangerous beast.

  Not as tall as many of his kind, Daken had a build to rival a Chetse warrior and the similarity didn’t end there. The white-eye’s arms, as thick as Yanal’s legs, were covered in tattoos – hardly the stylised scars of the Agoste field, where Chetse veterans put recruits through gruelling tests, but displaying a variety of styles. Yanal guessed many were charms and wards Daken had collected over decades of soldiering – making bargains and trading favours with any witch or hedge wizard he met.

  They walked on, Yanal keeping well back so Daken had time to calm. He didn’t have a horse of his own, had sold it weeks ago when it looked like Canar Thrit was going to requisition every horse it could. Bastards hadn’t done it in the end, but the rumour had meant he got sod all for the worm-ridden creature.