House of Sand and Secrets (Books of Oreyn #2)(95)

Still an all, it took the sharif long enough to go after the damn thing. Typical of them police-bastards. Course it was only so long before the bat moved on to better feeding grounds an got the Gris-damned Lammers involved. The Hob-council had to send sharif packs in to hunt it down before things got worse.

I heard Marlon said they took so long ‘cause no-one believed a bat would be dumb enough to start hunting here, so close to MallenIve. Once, long ago, when I was still playing second to that damn Hob, Marlon told me there’s tame bats in MallenIve proper, but I don’t believe a word that bastard says no more.

Vampires are lower even than street dogs, an there’s no way I’m gonna believe that MallenIve’s Lams let them walk the street just like they was people. Not when the buggers drink blood an all that crap. Besides, Marlon will tell anyone anything long as he has their attention.

“They gonna burn it?” Oncle says an he tears his attention from his pint to peer side-long at me.

“Looks like. They’re setting up a stake on Lander’s.” I drink a little more, letting the scriv settle strong in my veins. I feel like I could take on Marlon’s Wend pack with one hand tied an smash that shite bastard down into the ground so hard he won’t see straight for a month. Ah now, there’s a dream to relish. “Was thinking you might want to go see it.”

“Hmm.” Oncle drains the last of his bitter. “Drink up smart, before we go an miss the whole deal.”

Looks like it’s a good day for me – a free drink an a bit of entertainment. It’s the best day I had since Prue died, anyway. I drink quick even though I’ve no head for scriv an follow Oncle out into the last of the sunshine, my mind wobbly an too big for my skull.

By the time we reach Lander’s Common, the sharif have already built a pyramid stake; black saplings stripped bare an lashed into place with scraps of red silk ribbon. A crowd is gathering – word spreads fast down our way - an the working-ladies have even come out from their dark rooms in their thin slips an petticoats.

We’re all waiting; burned darkest brown by the desert sun, eyes squinted, sharp ears ready. As usual down our way, everyone looks too thin an tired; the Wend Hoblings with their pot bellies an their woeful faces, my own pack lean and sharp. Even the older Hobs are hunger-stunted, kept like this by the damned Lammers.

I keep a sharp eye for Marlon or any of his scavs, but a few of my own see me an nod; let me know it’s all clear - that Marlon’s keeping to his side of the common. Good. Last thing I need is an out an out war twixt the two of us. Best we just keep skirting each other, the way the blasted magicless Mekekana in their iron ships do with the Lammers.

I’m a good head taller than most Hobs but I still want a decent view, so me an Oncle push through right to the front where the sharif have the bat tight in iron. Those chains must burn the f*cker’s skin something awful. The sharif hold the ends of the chains, hands carefully bound in leather strips so that the iron don’t touch them.

I’m right near the front now. The bat is close to my height; just a little taller than the sharif around it. It’s frightened, crying gobbets of blood. It looks almost like a Hob, only white as chalk dust and the skin on its face already blistering in the late noon sun. Damn thing’s not like I was expecting. I thought it would look like a beast, all hungry-like, but it’s thin and shaking, an its black hair hangs in its face like it were trying to hide.

“Well now, would you look at that,” says Oncle. “It’s not even full grown.”

It does look young, but then I’ve never seen one up close-like, so I take Oncle’s word on it. Best I can tell is that it’s not all that much younger than me - may be just seen its sixteenth year. Then again - with bats, who knows right anyway?

The nearest sharif strikes it across the face with a length of iron chain, an the crowd whistles. The bat raises its white face. It’s stopped crying. May be that it realises how useless its tears are here. Instead it shivers; shivers so hard I think it’s gonna shiver right out of its skin. You never think of them wearing clothes an boots - they’re just tales to scare children - but the bat is in a neat suit; a worn one with the knees darned an the sleeves an trousers too short. The bat’s white ankles an bony wrists are on display, an there’re red weals where the iron touched it.

The beer sits strange in my belly. I’ve done a bit of work with Oncle’s pick before, an I know just how much iron hurts. I almost feel kinda bad for the damn bat.

“Please,” it says when the sharif light their torches. We fall back a little from the heat.

The crowd goes still, an the bat knows. I can see on its face it understands - there’s no-one gonna feel sorry for it, child or no. It killed their babes an it understands that much at least. We Hobs don’t take kind to those that hurt our own. It tries to curl into a ball, but the sharif just kick it an drag it up to the stake, pulling the chains tight.

It’s gibbering now, calling for its mam. But all we do is watch as the torches are put to the dry grass an kindle-sticks.

Black smoke an screams pour over Lander’s Common, an tonight they’ll be getting high down on the Wend. Celebrating. The air smells of wood ash an pork, almost heavy enough to drown out the reeking shite stench from the Lam-heaps. The winds turn, blow the smell up the hillside to where MallenIve proper squats with its spires an gables. I hope the f*ckers up there choke on it. This far from the city, I can just make out the nearest of the seven thin bell towers the Lams call the Widows.