Dassuk: Part the First:Bloodseeker

Dassuk

By

Gordon Greenlaw

Part the first:

Bloodseeker

Copyright 2013 Gordon Greenlaw

Smashwords Edition

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Dedicated to my beloved son Guy

1972-2009

Table of Contents

Prologue

Map 1

Map 2

First reading – the Bignose memoir

First revelation – poisons

Second revelation – dassuk

Third revelation – unveiling

Fourth revelation - awakening

Fifth revelation – first defiance

Sixth revelation – Haruma

Seventh revelation - Mhet

Eighth revelation – odyssey

For more information, including full colour maps, go to http://www.dassukworld.co.uk

Prologue

Dusk. Clustered lamps cast a clear, soft light onto the central table. Around the table the robed figures are little more than shadows. Fumes from the lamps thicken the air, already heavy with sweat. All eyes are focussed on the table’s polished copper surface.

There, the chest is open at last. Its protective mechanisms lie dismantled beside it, the needles and darts now harmless. Tweezers held in trembling hands remove a thin glass vial from within. Inside the vial a dark liquid ripples. The vial is laid reverentially onto a bed of soft fibres. Small round mirrors on long rods are used to carry out a final painstaking inspection of the chest’s interior. Then the men and women around the table stand back, straightening, relaxing, removing heavy leather gloves and aprons, unwrapping gauze from their mouths. They look at each other and nod.

One man steps forward, and begins to empty the chest of its closely packed contents: yellowing rolls of paper, each tightly bound with a twist of fibre. He selects one at random. The fibres crumble as he touches them, but the thin, almost translucent paper is still intact. He slowly unrolls it, holds it under the light. All there hold their breath. Then smiles break out. On the paper the fine script is still legible, its ink faded to a dull brown, but still legible.

More rolls are inspected; none have faded or crumbled beyond recall. Then a hesitant voice is raised:

"Esteemed colleagues, it seems the Wind from the North left one last test for us. None of these scrolls is dated or numbered. How are we to know the order in which he intended these to be read?"

Map 1

Map 2

Book of Revelations

Composed of the Bignose Cache with additional material from the Ras Hold Archives and donations by the Elders of Brelana.

Compilation authorised by Third Convocation of Pod Yot.

Footnotes and comments by the Chosen Archivists

Part the First

First Reading

The Bignose Memoir

My Initiate name is Kleth nar Loka nar Smatzi, but everyone in Gheenbay knows me as Kleth Bignose. Kleth is a common enough Smatzi name, I suppose, and many Smatzis work in the arrak trade, so there has to be some way of telling us apart. And better Bignose than Kleth Arsewhistler, who buys my empties, or even Greasy Kleth, purveyor of low-grade fenny two eyots away. So, perhaps I do have a nose, which, though nobly proportioned, is a trifle larger than the norm, and somewhat darker in hue – but a well-pickled proboscis is a mark of all arrak dealers, a tribute to the excellence of their wares.

My wares are invariably excellent, my prices moderate, my establishment discreet but secure, my clientele loyal. Kleth Bignose now is a reputable citizen of New Gheenbay, flying Virgin White over his door and paying his taxes without too many regrets. So, Bignose it is. I have been called a lot worse.

Dassuklicker was probably the worst. There was some truth in it, after all. He who we must now think of as Lord Recorder, Wind from the North, lived amongst us first as Mramnam Mrecko, and as Mramnam Mrecko he entered into partnership with me on many profitable ventures. I knew he was different, of course, even before I met him, the tales of the Albanovan half-breed and his comical pet had spread throughout Gheenbay, and I had been meaning to visit his teahouse and see for myself for some time. But he had heard of me also, there was little about Gheenbay trade that escaped his notice, and he came to me first.

Kleth nar Loka? he asked as he stepped into my booth.

This shook me. No one else in Gheenbay had ever addressed me thus. He must have been talking to someone from Smath – and few there remembered me. I stared at him as I struggled for words, taking in the indefinable strangeness of him. I could guess who he was. Who else had such eyes, a pale mottled grey? Taller than me, if not by much, about the same age, slim, wide shouldered. His dress was nothing exceptional: White undershirt, plain Brown tunic and trews, neutral sash, no weapons on show, of course. As was usual in those days he wore his Krenditzi trading badge around his neck, the Chequers clear and bright.

Clearer and brighter than mine, where the Black was already flaking. His could be the real thing, of course; if not, it was a better fake than mine. The sleeves of his shirt were wide and long, and there was a tell tale bulge in his sash, the wrong shape for a purse. Nothing unusual in that those days, when there was no Peace Troop and the Krenditzi militias offered little protection to the small businessman, however much silver they squeezed out of you.

If I had any doubts as to his identity, the creature that padded through my door in his footsteps would have dispelled them. This had to be the creature from the Reefs, that could juggle and tumble and dance amusing jigs to his master’s music. Lekk, that was its name. At first sight, perhaps there was something comical about the creature. Its rear legs were long, its front legs short, its dun brown velvety skin appeared too large for the body below and drooped in deep folds. Round, naked, pink ears twitched constantly, dark, melancholy eyes were fringed with curling lashes. Its nostrils were out of all proportion, triangular orifices that dominated its face.

As it entered, these flared even larger. Then it grunted dismissively, sat gracelessly upright on its broad buttocks and began to groom some impressive facial whiskers with slender fingers.

Tearing my gaze away, I looked back at my visitor in time to see a smile disappearing from his face.

Are you Kleth nar Loka?" he asked impatiently.

I replied as formally as possible: At your service. Do I have the honour of addressing Mramnam Mrecko, host of Old Smero’s?

He laughed in agreement. Turning, I produced a flask of Red Dodo and two beakers.

"Care to sample my wares?’ I asked, pouring equal tots of the golden arrak into the beakers and arranging them on the bench for him to make his choice. He picked one up, turned, and proffered it to his pet. The nostrils flared again, again came the dismissive grunt.

I raised my own beaker. May the Lady be always at your shoulder; I intoned, and took a disciplined sip.

And yours he responded. He sipped, raised an eyebrow. I noticed his nails, another alien note; far longer than the norm, painted like a woman’s. He sipped again.

This is your finest blend?

It was not, of course, it was of good quality, but I kept the Virgin’s Tears only for established customers, and kept it discreetly locked away lest a militiaman came calling. If any other prospective customer had asked the same question, I would have assured him the Red Dodo was indeed the finest generally available – once he became a good customer I would invite him to sample something better that was ‘just in from Smath’.

But, as I stared into those eyes, my patter deserted me, and I shook my head. I have better, for the right customers, I mumbled.

His eyes held mine. A faint memory began to surface – I had seen eyes like those before. I took a step forward.

Shock roared through me. Before my foot touched the ground thin fingers held my shoulders in a grip of iron. I felt the sting of claws. The creature’s lips rolled back, displaying rows of shining yellow carnivore’s teeth. Its nostrils flared. Before I could react it expelled a great gust of rank breath into my face, then released me and returned to its original position.

I let out a sob: I felt terror and disbelief, yet the whole incident occupied no more than five heartbeats. My other visitor still held his beaker to his lips and seemed unruffled by the brief flurry.

Lekk is full of surprises, he remarked. He sensed your mood change. He doesn’t like sudden mood changes. You’re still alive, so your thoughts can’t have been aggressive. So, Kleth nar Loka, exactly what was going through your Smatzi brain just then, hey?

I drew a deep breath.

It was just a fancy, Lord, your face looked familiar for a moment, like one I saw several Wets ago – it was just a fancy.

My visitor tensed for a moment. His pet’s ears pricked.

And where exactly might you have fancied you saw me, hey? he asked.

I saw a man with eyes like yours once, in a bathhouse. He played music – not that many listened, not in a flesh shop like the House of Excellence.

My visitor laughed again.

The House of Excellence, hey, yes, that could have been me. A real shithole – I wonder what you were doing there, Kleth nar Loka? Delivering cheap rotgut, no doubt. We’ve both come a long way since then, hey?

He raised an eyebrow, and asked casually: Would you like to go further?

"Further, Lord? I ventured.

Yes, further. More silver, more women, more security, whatever. Times are changing, new opportunities are arising, I see no reason why a man who knows his way around the arrak trade shouldn’t pick up some extra silver here and there. With the Lady’s blessing, of course.

He tossed off the last of his tot with a flourish and held out his beaker for a refill.

Shall we talk, hey?

He was right, there were new currents swirling through the creeks, and none knew where they would carry us. Gheenbay was booming, yes, in three generations it had gone from a bug-ridden exit port for greenstone on its way to the gasmasters’ retorts on Sentah to the richest township in the entire Josi Makem archipelago– but everyone in Gheenbay still paid nominal homage to Bund Krenditz, homage expressed these days in good solid silver spangles and billets rather than military service. And what did the Bundlords spend all this silver on?

Why, on all the exotic teas and spices and silks and bedwarmers brought into Gheenbay at such risk by the Zepps. And what they had left over went South to the weaponmasters of Sentah, Bund Mantz, to buy enough coked iron to keep Gheenbay safe from the other Bunds looking greedily on from the other Great Islands.

But Gheenbay was getting rich too, perhaps too rich. The Zeppfactors, those that funded the voyages and reaped the real profit from them – and risked their silver, it must be admitted, for even then Zeppfaring was an uncertain business – were sitting on vast hoards, if the rumours were even half true. Some used their riches to construct more eyots, more booths and warehouses, bigger mansions topped with expensive Mantzi tiles instead of reedthatch, larger and more secure seraglios.

Others invested in their own guard troops, and were said to have coked iron weapons of their own discreetly tucked away against extreme need. So far the Krenditzi looked the other way, and if commercial rivalries between Zeppfactors occasionally flared into bloodshed, these incidents were usually ignored – but not forgotten.

Tell me about arrak, my visitor said that day, as we sampled the Virgin’s Tears I thought it politic to produce. I took a sip as I considered my reply.

Arrak, true arrak, comes only from Smath, I began.

What about Ludda? he interrupted I’ve tasted arrak from Ludda. Hard to tell the difference, hey?

I frowned. Yes, Ludda produces a little, and it can be palatable, but there’s simply not enough of the right land on Ludda, it’s too close to the Margins. No, only on Smath do you get the land, and the climate, and the skill of the Smatzis, of course.

My visitor shrugged.

But many know how to draw the spirit from the mash, there’s no Secret there. I can buy fenny from almost every Great Island. Yes, most of it’s rough, but it’s cheap. How can you sell arrak when fenny’s so cheap?

Fenny! I snapped back.

"There was a time you could only get fenny from the brewers, when you knew what went into the mash, when the alembicists had some expertise, when the flavourings were tried and trusted. Now any greedy sodomite can buy a nice shiny alembic from Sentah, and make up a mash from anything the Lady will quicken – mangrove fruit if you’re lucky, anything green and sappy if you’re not.

"Some sort of berry juice for colour and flavour – but what sort of berry, hey? Those who drink fenny get drunk cheap, yes. But there’s a good chance they’ll end up blind or dead. Arrak is safer, much safer.

And you have to admit, you’ve never tasted fenny as smooth or mellow as this, I concluded, topping up both our beakers with the Virgin’s Tears.

All down to the unique skills of the Smatzis? my visitor responded, sniffing his sample. Yet even I can detect familiar aromas in this. There are flavourings here that never came from Josi Makem, hey?

Reluctantly, I nodded.

Yes, there are twenty-seven different essences and spices in the Virgin’s Tears, and most of them are exotic. I don’t know the exact formulation, of course, but many must come from Albanova.

So, he mused. Once more we have the Zeppers to thank. Nobody likes them, but we can’t do without them, hey?

Another sip of the Virgin’s Tears, another appreciative nod, and my visitor went on:

You’ve heard of Old Smero’s, you’ve probably heard tell of what we serve there –fine teas, delicious food, much of it new to Gheenbay, of course, that’s the point, novelty sells. But we also offer arrak, a wide range of arrak – which we don’t buy from you.

He paused and looked at me with one eyebrow raised.

You must have wondered who my supplier is, he commented.

I shrugged in my turn.

Supply is tricky these days. Those fucking Huntz are raiding everywhere, no barge is safe, even in the Greenway.

He nodded.

"Yet some shippers get their cargos through – perhaps they pay off the Huntz as well as the Bunds. Makes arrak remarkably expensive – at least if you buy through a licensed dealer, registered with the Hall of Factors, who pays his dues like a good little boy.

Now, your prices are remarkably low, I hear, and the word is arrak from Kleth Bignose is the real thing, genuine Smatzi. Yet, according to the records in the Hall of Factors, you sell almost nothing – at least, you pay very few dues. A paradox is it not? he added, tossing off the rest of his sample.

I sell only what I can get, I retorted. "Those hairy buggers in the marshes get their hands on at least half of what leaves Smath. Glory Boys they call themselves now, have you heard that?

Yes, my margins are low, but what else can I do, stuck out here on the Northern Shore?

My visitor shook his head, and smiled.

Low margins on low sales, yet this is a well built establishment, and a tidy little house out back. And you have a woman there, I hear. Marvellous what thrift can do, hey?

He leant forward. "Let’s stop pissing about, Smatzi. Most of what you stock, most of what you sell comes from those obliging renegade Ra Malinzi who sneak in at dark of night. You know what you’re buying, stolen goods, stolen by the Glory Boys and their like.

"Once the outlaw bands were too small and disorganised to have any real effect on the barge traffic. Any arrak the Huntz did get their hands on went straight down their throats or was traded for gewgaws with other Huntzis.

Now the bands are getting bigger and more organised, especially these Glory Boys. Now they have arrak to spare, and they want silver and women in exchange.

He paused, and held out his beaker again. I poured another generous tot, noting again the nails, multicoloured, touched with crystals. Leaning back reflectively, my visitor went on:

Now, I might just happen to have a reliable source of arrak in respectable quantities – not those Ra Malinzi, so I don’t have to pay their mark up. And I have a teahouse, the finest in Gheenbay, and I wish to offer the finest arrak in Gheenbay as well. But I have a problem.

Which is? I prompted, almost against my will.

"I don’t know enough about arrak, and I’ll never sell enough just through my teahouse to make it a worthwhile venture. What I need