Monument

  About the Book

  Ballas is a drunk and a vagrant. In his heart there is only greed, and in his eyes only bitterness. Such a man is not suited to legend. He is fit only for an unmarked grave. And there are people who seek to hasten his journey there.

  When a young priest saves him from a beating in the street, Ballas does not know how to react to such an act of kindness. So instead he betrays his rescuer, by stealing from those who have offered him hope. But although what Ballas chooses to take can easily be hidden under a cloak, it is no trinket to be sold in the market for a bowl of soup. It is an artifact that will lead an army to hunt him down-and bring the world to the edge of chaos.

  PRAISE

  “Eschewing the predictably chivalrous caricatures of much mainstream fantasy, British author Graham’s fiercely energetic debut novel of dark destinies, treachery, and tragic self-awareness focuses on morally corrupt characters in a bleak, amoral world of oppressive religious systems and explosive violence … Those seeking gritty realism in imaginative fiction will welcome it.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Graham has gone for gritty realism, in both his characterization and setting, and succeeds wonderfully. If bloodthirsty, action-packed fantasy is your thing, this author is going to be one to watch.”

  —Starburst

  “In gritty, realistic prose, Graham pulls no punches as he depicts a fantasy world both brutal and unforgiving and lacking in heroes. Fans of noir fantasy should enjoy this grim but uplifting debut.”

  —Library Journal

  “Ian Graham writes with energy and inventive nastiness.”

  —SFX

  “This is not the typical fantasy novel because Ballas is an antagonist with very few redeeming qualities … Readers can’t help but be drawn to this character in spite of themselves because of a fascination with such a nasty soul or because he has the raw potential to do good deeds in spite of himself. Ian Graham has plenty of talent and the courage to write a book that is totally different than any recent work in the fantasy genre.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “A strong ending that is memorable and absorbing.”

  —Dreamwatch

  “The consistency with which Ian Graham portrays his central character is one of the book’s great strengths … Another strength is the spare, effective descriptiveness of the prose—Graham seems to have the knack for conjuring up his characters and settings with an impressive economy of language. His action sequences, too, are convincingly conveyed and he doesn’t pull any punches either; this is a very violent book with fights, beatings, and killings aplenty.”

  —The Alien Online

  “A compelling read.”

  —Romantic Times

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario M4V 3B2, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

  Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India Penguin Group (NZ), Cnr. Airborne and Rosedale Roads, Albany, Auckland 1310, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  MONUMENT

  An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Orbit Books hardcover edition / October 2002

  Ace trade paperback edition / April 2004

  Ace mass market edition / March 2005

  Copyright © 2002 by Ian Graham.

  Cover art by Jerry Vanderstelt.

  Cover design by Rita Frangie.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York. New York 10014.

  ISBN: 0-441-01263-9

  ACE

  Ace Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  175 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ACE and the “A” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  For my mother and father.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My colleagues in the bookshop, who have endured my professional shortfailings with remarkable patience: Katherine, Paula, Gilly, Suzanne, Alison, Sarah, Janet, Cat, Daniel, Andy, Anthony and Julian.

  Rob Bowker, for placing order #1.

  Mike Rowley at Enigma magazine, for his enthusiasm.

  Dave Gemmell, for his advice, encouragement and unfaltering support.

  Tim Holman, my editor, for his guidance and immeasurable patience.

  Howard Morhaim and Abner Stein, my agents, for their hard work and insight.

  Richard Stockley, for things technological.

  Ben Svensson, for fifteen years of friendship and intoxication—may many years of similar lie ahead.

  Rachel Graham, who has inflicted upon me all manner of pain and ridicule, yet remains the finest of all imaginable sisters.

  And to Claire, for understanding—and apple trees and brightness.

  Chapter 1

  Thus it commenced, on a cloudless night,

  A clothes-maker of the south

  Of Meahavin

  Received the word of the creator-god

  And vowed to do His bidding.

  Abandoning all worldly goods, he left

  His home and became a Most Holy Pilgrim …

  Extracted from the unexpurgated, forbidden account of the Pilgrims by Mascali, the Ninth Witness

  It was a foolish fashion, thought the big man. A mixture of vanity, bluster and juvenile stupidity.

  Across the common room, a group of stonemasons sat at a long table. They were young men, sinuously muscled from long hours of labour. White dust caked their skin, hair, eyelashes—they seemed much less men than phantoms granted flesh. They were drinking ale, jesting, and waiting for the whores to arrive. The big man objected to none of these things. Alcohol, laughter, and women were sensible pursuits. But he found absurd the manner in which the stonemasons wore their purses.

  Each purse hung from its owner’s belt on a two-inch braided leather strip. Some strips were brightly coloured, reds interwoven with greens and blues. Others were darker: a sombre plaiting of blacks, browns, and dried-blood ochre. The purses dangled from these strips as vulnerable, and as tempting, as ripe apple
s. The most cack-handed thief could’ve snatched one.

  And that, supposed the big man, was precisely the point.

  Like any young men with hot red blood in their veins, the stonemasons wished to appear confident, strong, dangerous … exactly the type of men who could fearlessly expose their valuables to theft. For no one would dare steal them. It would be akin to snatching food from a lion’s jaws: an act of suicidal lunacy.

  The big man lifted a wine flagon to his lips.

  Since mid-morning, he had been in the tavern. He had scarcely budged from his corner table—except to use the pissing yard and purchase fresh drinks at the bar. He had imbibed enough alcohol to float a warship. Whisky, gin, rum, ale, wine … all had sluiced into his stomach. He had drunk enough to make most men fall violently sick. Enough, perhaps, even to kill those of an under-developed constitution. But the big man was immeasurably resilient. Effortlessly, he could drink ten times as much as most men.

  And looked like he could.

  Drink had bloated him. Over his belt sagged an ale gut—a flaccid drum of flesh, straining against his tunic. His face was swollen. And never a handsome man, he now resembled a boar. His nose had been broken so frequently in drunken brawls that it had crumpled to a snout. His beard—thick, tangled, lice-thronged—was the dull black of a tusker’s pelt. His slightly hunched shoulders, barrel chest, and lumbering movements added to his porcine appearance. Only his eyes looked fully human. Set in watery, bloodshot whites, the green irises were sharp, attentive. They glittered insolently.

  The big man’s name was Ballas.

  It was time, he decided, to get himself some money.

  He dropped his wine flagon deliberately and watched it shatter on the floor.

  Startled by the sudden noise, the stonemasons glanced over.

  ‘Clumsy bastard,’ shouted one—a red-haired youth, his skin still blemished by childhood freckles. His brown eyes were cold and cruel; they burned with a type of habitual resentment. He gazed intently at Ballas. ‘Look at the state of him,’ he urged his friends, pointing. ‘There is dried vomit on his shirt. His hair bristles with lice. I’d wager piss stains daub his breeches. Tell me, fat man: when did you last take a bath?’

  Ballas shrugged.

  ‘You seem untroubled by your own filth,’ said the youth. ‘And by your stench. Do you go whoring, eh?’

  Ballas nodded.

  ‘I take it the girls hold their breath? I take it they struggle to keep down their gorges? For you’re more likely to provoke nausea than desire.’

  Ballas shrugged once more.

  ‘You have no self-respect, fat man,’ said the youth. ‘If I ever hit low times and live as you do, I’ll kill myself. Sweet grief, I’d slit my throat. I’d slice off my balls. I’d do anything to bring about my death. No matter how painful, no matter how degrading.’ He turned to the other stonemasons. ‘Promise that one of you’ll butcher me, if ever I take on the fat man’s aspect. Go on: we are all loyal to one another. I’d do the same for you. It’d be a true act of friendship. A mercy killing. Surely you wouldn’t deny me?’

  The red-haired youth’s purse dangled from a plain black strip. Its burden of coins strained against the fabric. Ballas eyed it for a moment like a snake eyeing a mongoose.

  He stooped to pick up a shard of flagon glass.

  ‘No, wait,’ came a voice.

  A serving girl hurried over. ‘I shall do that. You’ll only cut yourself, and then I’ll have to mop up blood as well as wine.’

  Kneeling, she used a short-handled brush to sweep the shards into a heap.

  ‘You have been here since we opened,’ she said, glancing up. ‘It is a rare thing, to see someone drink as much as you. You have guzzled a river, sir. You are not going to turn foul, are you?’

  ‘Foul?’ murmured Ballas.

  ‘You know: rowdy. This is a peaceful tavern, more or less. We don’t want trouble.’

  ‘You’d reckon it best if I left?’ asked Ballas. His deep voice rolled with a Hearthfall burr.

  ‘No,’ said the girl quickly.

  ‘A serving girl doesn’t ask a man if he’s going to go rotten,’ said Ballas. ‘Not if she wants him to stay, and keep drinking. I’ve spent a purseful here—’

  ‘You misunderstand me,’ interrupted the serving girl.

  ‘I misunderstand nothing,’ said the big man, rising. ‘I’m not welcome here, right? So I’ll just piss off, then. There’re finer places in Soriterath—places where a man can drink, and be well treated.’

  Edging around the table, Ballas swayed. The floor seemed to tilt like the deck of a tide-shaken ship. Gripping the table’s edge, Ballas steadied himself. He was drunker than he had expected. Taking a deep breath, he started towards the doors.

  He took ten paces, tripped—and crashed into the red-haired stonemason. The stonemason fumbled his tankard; the vessel clanked on to the table, and an ale pool spread over the surface. With an angry shout, the stonemason sprang to his feet.

  ‘You bloody oaf!’ he snapped, his eyes blazing. ‘Can’t you even walk properly? Look what you have done!’ He pointed furiously at the spilled ale.

  ‘Accident,’ mumbled Ballas. ‘I’m drunk. Every step is an adventure. Forgive me.’

  The stonemason wrinkled his nose. ‘Close to, your stink is even fiercer than I imagined. You reek worse than a tanner’s shop!’ He pushed Ballas away.

  Surprised by the youth’s abrupt move, Ballas stumbled over a stool and fell to the floor.

  The stonemason stood over him. ‘You owe me a tankard of ale.’

  ‘I’ve got no money,’ said Ballas, slowly. ‘I’ve got … nothing.’

  ‘No man without money can get as drunk as you are …’

  ‘No man as drunk as I am,’ replied Ballas, struggling to his feet, ‘can possibly have any money left. I’ve supped enough to bankrupt a Blessed Master. To settle his account, he’d have to pawn the Sacros.’

  ‘Do not lie to me,’ said the stonemason. He advanced on Ballas.

  ‘Aiy!’ The serving girl glared at them from across the room. ‘Do you want me to summon the tavern-master? He has a wolfhound as big and ill-tempered as a bull: would you like him to turn it loose on you?’ She looked sharply at Ballas. ‘Go on: do as you promised—leave. The first time I saw you, I knew you were bad.’

  ‘Is that so? Then you’re smarter than you look,’ said Ballas. He glanced at the stonemason. He considered insulting the youth. He knew exactly what to say. The youth was embarrassed by his freckles. In every other aspect he was a man, full-grown and strong. Yet he still bore the faint leopard-markings of a child. Alternatively, Ballas could ridicule his acne: it sprawled over his chin, each spot a sore red hue, and pus-laden.

  Ballas said nothing. It was wisest by far simply to leave. Turning, he shambled outdoors.

  It was mid-afternoon. Bright autumnal light fell from a clear blue sky. The big man stood in a thoroughfare of half-frozen mud. On either side, there were taverns constructed from pale grey stone. Many appeared to be half-derelict: the wooden eaves were rotting, mosses and moulds blotched the brickwork, and paint had long since peeled from the doors. Ballas had been in Soriterath for only a few days, yet this particular area was one of the shabbiest he had encountered—not only in this city, he reflected, but in all of Druine. Soriterath was the Holy City, the city where the Pilgrim Church leaders dwelled. But it was not a place of splendour. In the opulent areas, there were grand buildings, true enough; but mainly the city was like many in Druine: a place of creeping squalor, of houses, taverns, and shops constructed from tired stone and mouldering wood, packed tightly together, as if to confine as many souls as possible to the smallest space. And, like many such cities, it had a distinctive smell: a combination of decaying vegetation and decomposing flesh. The greengrocers dumped their unsold produce in the streets, and when any of the city’s feral animals—a rabble of rats, cats, and dogs— died, their carcasses were left to rot where they lay. A similar fate awaited many human corpses
; others, weighted with rocks, were dumped in the Gastallen River. In an effort to control the diseases emanating from such corpses, the Pilgrim Church had erected communal pyres throughout the city. During times of plague and famine, Ballas had heard, the air over Soriterath grew black with the smoke of burning flesh.

  Soriterath might have been the Holy City, but it frequently had a hellish aspect.

  And when common room pessimists spoke of the country’s decline, of Druine’s gradual slide into moral ruin, they often held up Soriterath as an example.

  When Ballas arrived here, he had felt instantly at home.

  An icy breeze swirled along the thoroughfare, stinging his cold-cracked skin.

  He shivered. Then he grinned.

  ‘Let me see what I have here,’ he said, unfurling the fingers of his left hand. Upon his palm crouched the stonemason’s purse. It had been easily stolen. When Ballas had tripped— deliberately—into the young man, he had cut the purse from its strip with the shard of flagon glass. He had performed the operation with a conjuror’s dexterity.

  The purse was full.

  ‘When night falls,’ murmured Ballas, ‘I shan’t be dossing on the streets.’

  Then he noticed that the purse felt light. Too light, for a purse burdened with coins.

  Frowning, he rubbed it. He felt what he had previously observed: coins’ hard edges, straining against the fabric.

  Yet the lightness persisted.

  Was the wine playing a trick on him? Could it make heavy objects seem near-weightless—just as it made ugly women appear beautiful?

  He emptied the purse on to his palm. And cursed as a dozen discs of plain wood tumbled out.

  He hurled them to the ground.

  ‘Pissing eunuch,’ said Ballas, as if the stonemason was present. ‘Freckled, pimple-crusted eunuch. I ought to castrate you, and complete the effect.’

  A door slammed open. Echoes raced along the thoroughfare.

  The stonemason stepped from the tavern. Two others stood beside him.

  ‘You idiot,’ said the red-haired youth, pacing toward Ballas. His fingers probed the strip, dangling purseless from his belt.