A Strange Trade

Death In Harmony: Part Ten of Twenty-Nine

Death In Harmony is the fifth in the Tales of The Lesser Evil and this is the tenth chapter.

Skip to the story by clicking here.

This is a fantasy series—not quite grimdark, but dark nevertheless—with complicated and believable characters doing their best to survive in a world simply indifferent to their existence.

To read an introduction to this novella, and the backcover blurb, click here.

If you love the story too much to wait each week, you can also buy the ebook of the novel, as you can the preceding four Tales (available in an omnibus edition).

If you enjoy this story and aren’t already subscribed, please consider doing so:

share this with those you know,

or like, comment, or restack on Substack Notes.

A Strange Trade

The past: below Youlbridge

She smelled the corpse before she saw it, strong, sweet, sickly and utterly rotten. She knew what it was before receiving visual confirmation; the smell of decay is not something you forget.

He had been dead for some time, chained to the wall and slumped forward, as though he had simply fallen asleep and never woken. Beside him, on the floor, was a cage with what looked like the bodies of rats.

Even in an advanced state of decomposition, Flin could tell the man had died from the plague that was sweeping the city above, bare arms covered in crusted, now dried sores. It was also clear he had been an acolyte of the Temple of Healing, the patched and mended robes the followers of the Bandaged God wore unmistakable.

Why was he chained here? Who had chained him? Why an acolyte?

As a child, Flin had been told her mind was too inquisitive. It had caused her problems—always questioning, always asking what she was then told were the wrong questions, it was just the way things were always done, or being told to simply shut up, be quiet and listen. It was only when she had been apprenticed to Rharsle that she had been encouraged to question, and to question everything. He explained that she should seek answers, to delve into deep places where others would not look, try and find true stories and then bring them back to the world.

She looked back the way she had walked, but could neither see nor hear anything that suggested she was still being followed.

‘No closer,’ she whispered to Kadan. Already, she was wondering how the plague was spread. Was direct, physical contact needed, or would breathing the air around the dead man be enough? There were many different ideas as to how disease passed between people, some more outrageous than others.

It was clear that this tunnel had been used recently, which was at once both terrifying and encouraging; there must be a way in and, more importantly, a way out.

She checked the fuel-level on the lantern, before continuing to walk, slowly, carefully, methodically, always checking, eyes scanning, ears straining; just one step after another. All the while she whispered to Kadan, reassuring him and trying, unsuccessfully, to reassure herself, conscious that someone else was down in this underworld with her, most likely more than one someone, and the type of someone who would chain a holy man to a wall and leave him to die a terrible, long, and painful death.

Flin leapt back, catching herself against the wall as something moved overhead. The arrow fell from her hand and she almost dropped the lantern. A strong scent of urine and chamber pots, added to a tiny, suddenly-visible speck of light far above, made her quickly realise it was simply someone dumping their waste. Their world may have been falling apart, but people still needed to shit. Some things were a constant.

She was too jumpy, wound too tight, an intricate clockwork ready for springs and cogs to leap apart in random directions, or a doll coming undone at the seams, leaking stuffing, threatening to burst apart entirely at the next tight hug.

‘I need to focus, I need to stay calm.’

She breathed deeply, then repeated the action, ignoring the stench, then picked up the fallen arrow before moving on, away from the dead man and the chance of being covered in someone’s waste poured from above. Her life was already challenging enough, without the added misery of being covered in nightwaste.

She walked for barely a hundred heartbeats—fast, racing heartbeats, pounding against her ribs—before she found a second chained man, and this one was still alive, if barely.

His one good eye followed her lamp, squeezed almost shut against the burning glare. The other side of his face was a horrific mass of boils, swellings, and eruptions. Above his head was a large water skin, now flacid and almost empty, positioned so drops could fall into his mouth. He had his own cage of rats, some of whom were also still alive, the skeletal remains of others proof of enforced cannibalism.

Like the corpse before him, this man was a monk and, also like the man before, Flin stood as far away as possible.

‘Who are you? Who did this? Why are you here?’

He did not initially reply, coughing long and hard before he could find his words.

‘I was,’ he began, before breaking off to cough once more, ‘I am an initiate of the Temple of Healing in Langar’s Valley. Do you know it?’ He paused for breath, clearing his throat again and again. He spoke a heavily accented version of the language she had learnt the last few months, words sibilant, flowing together.

Flin did know it, the Temple was widely famous for their belief that anyone, no matter their status or wealth, deserved to be healed. They knew more about healing than anyone else she had ever heard of. It was said they were immune to all disease, able to heal all but death. The two free hospitals in the streets above them retained consulting and teaching staff from the temple.

She nodded in reply, making sure the man could see her do so.

‘I remember praying over a family who had come in with signs of the red fever, my brothers and sisters deep in prayer, then this, waking here, tied like this. There were no rats then, they brought them later.’

‘But who? Why rats?’ Flin took a step further along the tunnel when the man burst out into another series of choking coughs, spitting whatever he brought up to oneside, trying not to cough towards her. She fought the urge to run.

‘I cannot ask for water. I do not want to risk you and your baby. I…’ he coughed again, longer this time, convulsing, trying to pull his limbs in closer, then sagging in his bonds for a moment, before his attention snapped back to the conversation. ‘They infected me. It is something rats carry, maybe their fleas. The people I saw were all wearing masks, silent, their clothing scented with some sort of vinegar, fleawort, lavender, and maybe chamomile. They knew what they were doing in order to avoid being bitten. One…’ Again he broke out coughing, smaller, weaker coughs, chokes and gasps, horrific to hear. His eyes widened and he spoke rapidly, ‘One of their sleeves rolled up when they were attaching the water bag. I saw a bracelet with the shield of the city of Hazelhill. Why would they do this, why…’ Again he broke out coughing, wheezing and struggling to breathe, until he choked and sagged down in his bonds again.

This time, he did not continue talking. Eyes wide, mouth open, he died in front of Flin.

‘Time to go, little one. Time to go,’ she said, turning away from the man and moving carefully down the corridor, further into darkness and horror.

She passed a third and a fourth corpse, each with rats, each below a shaft of dim light from the world above. Another monk and a nun of The Bandaged God.

The fourth corpse was just beyond where she had been forced to choose a direction, after a fork in the tunnel.

‘Stupid Flin. Of course.’ She spoke to herself and her terror as much as she did Kadan, ‘Someone put these bodies here; if we follow the corpses we should find a way out.’

Follow the macabre trail, find their escape. It was a strange trade.

She came to another junction, former streets to the left, to the right, and straight ahead.

‘Let’s put this theory into practice,’ she said out loud, following faint, dusty footprints and a stronger scent of death. A fifth corpse was rotting along the route she chose, another shaft leading up.

Each such shaft was a reminder of how close relative freedom lay, but each was out of reach, too difficult for woman and baby to climb. Besides, she desperately needed to be outside the walls, not back in the city. Instead, she continued, hoping her theory was sound.

From overhead, she occasionally caught distant voices, calls and cries echoing down through the underworld. It felt like she had been trapped in the dark for an age. Checking the remaining lamp oil, she knew she could stay underground for many more hours yet, but she wanted to be out of the city as soon as she could.

Flin was well aware her terror had only been pushed down, squeezed and bundled into a small corner. She knew it was still there and, as though her mind had summoned it, it leapt back into the fore.

‘I swear I saw a light, just up ahead,’ the man’s voice was followed by heavy, echoing steps.

She did not wait, but shuttered the lamp as much as she dared and ran on into darkness.

Many thanks for reading.

Go to the next episode here.

Go back to the previous episode here.

Head to the introduction and contents page here.

Or read more about my fiction here.