The New Weird - Ann VanderMeer [189]
Kertel eyes the narrow alley, knowing all too well the likelihood of lurking salps but knowing also that it's the quickest path to Poonma Way, the broad boulevard that runs from the Tsongtrik banlieue, through the mint-smell of poppy houses, then the fart-smell of garial factories, to the food-smell of dhosa and samosa stands...to the Tranquil Plaza where half the world, it seems each year, have their festival lodgings. Where the Golden Songboys have their festival lodgings.
He's still weighing up the danger of the shortcut against the time saved (and wasting time in the indecision, he curses himself) when a man steps out of the shadows, a rough hulk of a thug, hood shadowing his bearded visage, a tattered sandal in one hand. He seems to be studying the sandal at first, until a turn of his head casts a slant of light across a scarred eye and Kertel realises his gaze is actually trained past it, toward the ground ― toward a trail of blood spots and red footprints that lead to -
He looks up at Kertel, and slides his other hand into a fold of cloak, reaching for a cosh or a knife, Kertel has no doubt. These alleys around the factories are as rife with hoodlums as with salps, and Kertel's mind is already spinning scenarios drawn from too many readings of The Ten Thousand Heroes of Riarnanth: an ambush gone wrong, the Detective staggering out of the alley, bleeding, while the villain's henchman comes to on the ground, drags himself to his feet and sets out in pursuit; or a murderer surprised in the act by an innocent passerby who escaped with his life (but missing one sandal) only because the victim (a rich industrialist?) had to be finished off for the assassin to earn his pay (and now, of course, all witnesses would have to be hunted down and eliminated (unless they could stagger to the Detective's door to gargle a cryptic clue with their dying breath)); or ― or -
"What are you doing here, boy?" growls the hoodlum.
But Kertel is already running.
He who is Goza, is Azog, is Nashira watches the boy flee, snorts with a gruff and casual amusement, in keeping with the hoodlum mask of Azog. For a moment, Nashira surfaces within him, in a flash of recognition and suspicion at Dseveh's protege, the dhosa-stall boy.Kertel, wasn't it?.found song-whoring on the corner of Poonma Way and Khunds Road ― Nashira, wait; listen ― taken under Dseveh's wing for tutelage ― the boy has talent ― voice-trained in Dseveh's chambers, there when Nashira returns from a long day of hazily-described "work" ― honestly, Nashira, you know there's only you, my. mystery.
He shakes Nashira from his head, rolls his shoulders, cricks his neck to bring himself back into the attitude of Azog, the sullen swagger. The boy is irrelevant, nothing to do with the trail of blood he's following, nothing to do with salps and strangers and broken sandals from Dardarbji.
"There's someone here to see you," mumbles Parl, "says he has an audition."
Doumani flourishes a hand.
"Send him up, then. Send him up. And fetch Hrenuzi; I'll need the two of you for the triptet."
A look of panic on the boy's face: "But Jazuh's our third. You're not thinking of ― "
"It's just an audition," says Doumani. "Don't worry."
He shakes his head as Parl disappears from the door. Songboys can be such a high-strung sort, worse than racehorses. But really.for all their squabbles and sulks, Jazuh, Hrenuzi and Parl are the tightest trio of the troupe, their voices so attuned, their timing so in synch, that you would think the three of them one being with a voice that sings in chords. Doumani's not about to break up that triptet.
"You want me to leave?" asks Ramazi, reaching for his clothes.
"Chuzdt, no," says Doumani. "I want you to stay there and look beautiful for young master Kertel."
A Golden Songboy, he thinks, must be able to sing no matter the distractions. In the palaces of septons, surrounded by dancers and jugglers, courtesans and catamites, it wouldn't do for a boy to lose his focus in a naive