The Wings of Ashtaroth

Chapter 9: Families: Section III: Kirin

Kirin: Marianus's Domus: Lorar

In Kirin's city, rain was a terrible thing.

Fat round raindrops drummed on the heads of the dead men in the peristyle. The bodies of Marianus's former slaves lined the courtyard in rows of ten, buried up to their necks in soil far richer than the alluvial plains of the great city of Lorar should allow.

It had been a week since Marianus had buried over half his household alive in recompense for Oran and Delos's plot to poison him, and only a day since the last of them—Ibby, the cook—had expired. A week in a city known for its flooding, with not a drop of water to quench the thirst of those suffering.

Now their rotting, bloating bodies swam in a sea of silty mud. Marianus had summoned the survivors here, rain be damned. They stood in an awkward, overlong silence, protected from the ill weather by the rafters above.

Pit-pikt, pikt-pit on the heads of the dead slaves. Pit-pikt, pikt-pit against the roof: a vile music, but Kirin found himself tapping his hand against his thigh in time with its rhythm.

Irina glared at him from her spot further down the line of people Marianus had summoned. He could read her thoughts in her eyes: it was Kirin's purge as much as Marianus's. Kirin was the one who'd uncovered Oran and Delos's plot. Kirin was the one who'd damned the household. She was angry, but at least she was alive. Edra, Ibby, even the monster Delos—none of them could say as much.

But maybe, Irina wasn't entirely wrong.

Pit-pikt, pikt-pit.

Ydelka, standing at attention to Marianus's left, cleared her throat. "Heron. It smells."

It did smell, but Kirin had barely noticed, and the stink was much less pungent than it'd been before the rain.

Marianus coughed, then sucked back a great lungful of air as though the breeze were fresh and the garden filled with the herbs and flowers he'd ripped up to make room for the slaves.

He turned to Kirin and grinned, grandfatherly good humour crinkling the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes. "She has the delicate nose of a woman, eh Kirin? Us bloodhounds are used to harsher stuff."

Kirin felt himself grin, all teeth, but there was horror, not commiseration, behind the smile.

Marianus's own smile faded. He turned away, staring at the rows of heads. His expression hardened. "You feel sorry for them? Those—those killers?"

Was he speaking to Kirin or Ydelka? Either way, Kirin remained silent. He knew by now that Marianus didn't want an honest answer.

Beside Ydelka, Irina began to sob. Kirin felt like his ribs were cracking inwards. Irina hadn't so much as spoken with him since she'd learned that Ibby and Edra had been taken for punishment. He'd never touch her again, not even to comfort her.

He wanted to comfort her.

Marianus's face was flushed. "I let them into my home. I let him into my home. Those Yellowers chitter in the senate that I'm ungenerous, that I don't care for the man on the street. If that were true, I wouldn't be standing here now, betrayed by my own slaves. Rats. All of them, rats. And it was a rat who put that Oran here. We Redders try to be civil," he cocked his head in Kirin's direction, as though in conversation, "to extend our hands in friendship and respect. But men's true natures always show in the end."

Water from the eaves was flooding the tiles around Kirin's feet—too much for the drains to handle. Kirin shuffled back, but the deluge followed, lapping at his boots. Marianus's sandals were soaked, but he didn't seem to care.