Chapter 4 – Shallo
Whispers and shadows in the Towers of Silence. On benches of stone the dead lay beneath open skies. Five tall towers offered corpses to the heavens. The central tower reached above four others, set around it at the compass-points. In these private heights flesh fell from rotten limbs, carrion birds feasted on eyes that had seen a lifetime. The bones lay where they fell, unattended. Skulls grinned at the cold tatters of cloud strung above them, and conversed with the ravens, whose diligent hunger picked them clean.
An old raven strutted amidst a ribcage, the bones stark white against his glossy blackness. His beady yellow eyes fixed upon something new. A quartered circle of iron, no broader than a beak-length. He cocked his head to the side and took a step toward it. He paused. He was old, this raven, and steeped in the wisdom of his kind. Uttering a raucous shriek of warning he took to the air in a dark explosion of wings. Birds rose on every side, and within moments the tower stood empty of life.
Nothing but silence underwrote the moaning of the wind. Until the whispers came. Nothing moved but dry skin in the breeze. Until the shadows writhed like snakes. The darkness lived. Gloom gathered around the dead, defying the winter sun. Like black ivy, darkness wrapped the ribs where the raven had stood. Night clotted around the bones, thick and textured. Darkness pooled and ran, climbing and spreading until the skeleton that owned the ribs, and two others on neighboring benches, were each clothed in midnight flesh. Smooth black fingers closed around the iron disk that had so tempted the old bird.
"She has failed us." The voice insinuated itself into the air.
"The witch has failed." The second creature agreed.
All three stood together. Their umber faces perfect, sculpted from jet, inhuman in their beauty.
"The Blood of the Black cannot be denied. We will send another to claim the key."
They turned to face due south, their unwavering stare fixed on the horizon, above and beyond the frozen wastelands of Sark. Together they bent their will toward one end. Black lips whispered a name,
"Shallo."
"Shallo."
"Shallo? That's an odd name." The young man studied her intently, waiting for a response. "Are you even listening to me?"
"What? Sorry." Shallo shook her head and tried to focus on their conversation, "I'm so sorry, August dear, I thought I heard somebody call me... It's a very old name. It came to me from my mother's line in the west of Sark. Her family can trace their bloodline to the days of Arthur."
August sniffed and polished his nails on his embroidered jacket. "Sark! A dreadful place by all accounts. I wouldn't boast of any such heritage if I were you. I can see it now though, you have the fair skin of a Sarkasian, pale, like milk, very becoming."
Shallo smiled, she knew it was not her skin that drew men to her. She knew also that nothing in her was conventionally pretty. Her hair lay lank and colourless, her eyes were ice-water and too narrow, her mouth too small. Even so, they came. Perhaps some unspoken promise hung about her. A look that said she knew exactly what they wanted, and a promise to deliver.
She sipped her wine, perfectly at ease. "I've never been to Sark, but perhaps I should. I burn in the shade every summer. A land of ice and snow might suit me."
"Are you new to these regions, Lady?" August asked, "None of my friends could place you, and I would know you had I but glimpsed you from a distance."
"Visiting." Shallo inclined her head towards an elderly woman in diamonds across the hall, "Lady Valtrade knows my father and kindly invited me to accompany her to the gathering."
On the stage the musicians stood and the bubbling of conversation died away throughout the grand hall. The centremost of the five musicians picked up his flute. Despite his age the man radiated vigour. August sniffed and stifled a yawn.
"They say Geralt is exceptional," whispered Shallo, "We have a treat in store."
"I'm glad you like the minstrels, dear lady. I don't care for them myself. It's no fit occupation for a man, tootling about on a pipe his whole life. However, dear Shallo, what makes you happy I cannot condemn." August forced a smile.
Shallo sized August up, narrowing her eyes as he looked away to the where the musicians stood, still checking their instruments. He looked very handsome in his well-groomed way. Black hair, slightly curled, framed a square-jawed face. A pity he lacked the character to support the lie of his features. His eyes matched the cornflower blue of his silk waistband. The sword at his hip was ornamental, but Shallo entertained no doubt he had not been properly schooled in the arts of war. Only August's mouth betrayed his faults, even when silent. There was a weakness about his lips - it spoke of a mean spirit and of pettiness. Perhaps all those sour words had left their mark there.
Shallo didn't care, it was August's body not his mind that attracted her. Even now, with all her plans thrown to the wind, his body continued to be her main interest. In any event, attraction was merely a bonus, as a piece in Shallo's game August con Larna would be seduced, even if he looked like a horse.
Geralt's first notes sounded, pure and clear. He let them hang in the air. Then, slowly, music began to pour from his flute. Complex and unbroken, the melody flowed over the glittering crowd. Music filled the hall, to the very rafters. For a moment Shallo closed her eyes and lived amid the leaping tones. She moistened her parted lips, tasting the harmonies. Geralt notes became sharp and began to cut. The power of it bore Shallo away, as if he had sliced open the very air and the blood of the world came flooding out. And without warning the flood washed by, a single aching hollow note reverberating in its wake, leaving her stranded.
Applause. More than polite, less than unrestrained. Geralt bowed and retired to his seat among the other players. Together they struck up a familiar tune, a variant on the Rega Waltz that rang out so often in ballrooms from Thelim to Callan Town.
Shallo's hand found August's. Her long fingers laced his. She brushed an imagined hair from the black velvet of her dress and pushed from her voice any echoes of emotion from Geralt's performance. "Shall we dance?"
Without waiting for a reply Shallo led August into the space before the players. She turned and curtsied, all elegance and poise.
"Sir?"
August bowed in turn, "My lady."
Catalyzed by Shallo's confident entry onto the dance-floor, other couples followed suit. Within moments two dozen dancers stepped and twirled. Many were very accomplished, trained as children by tutors in the essential arts of nobility. Shallo's own training demanded both grace and precision, and whilst she had undoubtedly danced to a different tune she suspected her lessons served her well enough amid the swirl of gentry. August proved a suitable prop for her skill. His bright colours contrasting her black and silver.
The music fell. Geralt scattered spare notes amidst the throng, and the applause rose. August's chest heaved, he patted at his face with a handkerchief to keep perspiration at bay. Shallo curtsied again,
"My lord, I do hope I've not worn you out." She let her smile become a knowing one. What is read on a person's lips often carries more weight than what they say with them. Shallo dictated both conversations – the one fashioned from words and the one communicated in an older language by means of posture, pose, looks, motion, even by the drawing of breath. "I would hate to think you've no energy left..."
August stammered a denial, redder in the face than ever.
"Perhaps my lord would care for a stroll in the orangery?"
A smile caught August's lips. "My lady! A gentleman in my position cannot afford such dalliances, no matter how tempting the invitation. Lord Martal con Jalan has hopes I will call on his second daughter before long. It would offend our host to see me leave in your company."
Shallo held August with her eyes. Men seemed to find their paleness hypnotic. His blush spread to his collar. She took both his hands, "Our little games need not concern Lord Martal. I require no more wooing and my reputation is every bit as valuable to me as yours to you, sir. It would not do for Lady Valtrade to see me leave in your company." The lies came so easily, Lady Valtrade had never laid eyes on Shallo before this evening.
She smiled, "Perhaps though your caution is justified. I should rejoin her..." Bait and hook.
"No! No... I'm sure we can be... discreet. I could meet you in the orangery presently..." August looked panicked at the thought of Shallo slipping through his fingers.
Shallo turned her head. Her eyes flickered across the crowd. She stepped in close, invading the invisible bubble of August's private space. "Don't keep me waiting." She left, knowing his eyes were on her, letting her body speak its silent promises once more. A little smile crossed her face, so close to shark.
Shallo did not look back as she wove her way from the hall. She went to the cloakroom, and had the servant bring out her cape, black and heavy. Wrapped against the cold, she found her way to the orangery. She'd seen it on her way up to the mansion. A fabulous luxury, hundreds of panes of glass set between lead and iron, enclosing a miniature forest of exotic fruit trees. The Conault climate, though less harsh than that of Sark, would not permit citrus fruit to ripen without such protection.
Shallo stalked into the orangery, she could see the moon through the glass roof, full and bright. She stood in the deepest shadow, beneath the foliage of a lime tree. One lone lime, a last wizened survivor of summer, hung close by her face. Shallo plucked the fruit and slipped it into her pocket. The pane beside her felt smooth beneath her fingertips, hardly a ripple in its surface, a far cry from the puddled windows found in the noble houses of Sark. Shallo's father ruled a province six times the area of Lord Jalan's lands, and yet her home contained no pane of glass wider than a hand-span.
August kept her waiting. It made it easier. She let her dislike ferment, distilling little drops of hate. Stray moonbeams caught Shallo's breath steaming before her, under the tree. She hid her hands in the pockets of her cape. At the bottom of the right pocket her fingers discovered a smooth wooden handle. Deftly she turned the object about, running a long nail along the thin metal spike that protruded four inches from the wood. She pulled away the cork that kept the needled point from jabbing her, and tested its sharpness. Restless fingers toyed with the spike, danger in her hand, sharp little bites of it on her skin. She mastered her impatience. She was used to waiting, used to planning. He would come.
Shallo's plans had hinged on the conquest of August con Larna. The seduction was to be the keystone for an elaborate construction of blackmail and extortion, infiltration and espionage. Tonight however, something unexpected had fallen into her machinations. Her game would have to be set aside. The seduction of the Con Larna heir had gone according to plan, but now the plan had changed. Shallo held herself to be her own mistress, but when certain people call your name it is wise to answer.
In the great house the striking of gongs spelled midnight. With a rustle of suede and silk, August strode through the doorway. He stood on the path, blind in the darkness, turning one way then the other.
"Shallo?"
She moved silently, with something of the spider about her. A rustle in the shrubs drew August's gaze, and Shallo rose behind him. She closed the door. August turned with a start and relaxed into a smile.
"Shallo!"
August's death had never been part of her plan.
Shallo slid her arm under his, and on tiptoes she found his lips with hers in the darkness. He gasped, a low soft exclamation, as she slid the spike home between his ribs, up into his heart. August's last breath tasted of whiskey. He was too heavy to support. Shallo let him slump to the cold ground, thankful she hadn't had to face his strength. Murderer.The accusation rose in her, a voice not her own, familiar but nameless. Murder always left her unclean - stained by some instinct that could never be entirely trained out of her. Mother Agen had called it a weakness. Sister Rosa called it a strength, but only in whispers where no-one else would hear.
"God of Colours keep you." A mutter as she knelt beside August and closed his eyes. She had little enough faith in the High God but it would be best if August's soul made a quick exit. She wiped the spike clean on her fingers and marked August's forehead with the Speaking Rune. Next she patterned his cheeks and throat, picking out the pulse points. This done she knelt beside the corpse.
"You called me?"
Dead lips writhed. August's eyes shot open, nothing of the blue remained, they were black, wholly black. His body spasmed and dark blood welled from his mouth. The voice that gurgled from him was sly, corrupt and old, falling dirty from his tongue.
"The Priests of the Black require a service of you."