The Best of Lucius Shepard Read Online Free Page A

was still
reckoned an evil place. Something far worse than skizzers or flakes was
rumoured to live there, and the ravages of this creature were blamed for every
disappearance, even that of the most malcontented labourer. But Meric did not
give credence to the rumours. He half believed Griaule had chosen him to be his
executioner and that the dragon would never let him be harmed; and besides, it
was the only place where they could be assured of privacy.
     
    A crude
stair led under the wing, handholds and steps hacked from the scales -
doubtless the work of scale hunters. It was a treacherous passage, 600 feet
above the valley floor; but Lise and Meric were secured by ropes, and over the
months, driven by the urgency of passion, they adapted to it. Their favourite
spot lay 50 feet in (Lise would go no further; she was afraid even if he was
not), near a waterfall that trickled over the leathery folds, causing them to
glisten with a mineral brilliance. It was eerily beautiful, a haunted gallery.
Peels of dead skin hung down from the shadows like torn veils of ectoplasm;
ferns sprouted from the vanes, which were thicker than cathedral columns;
swallows curved through the black air. Sometimes, lying with her hidden by a
tuck of the wing, Meric would think the beating of their hearts was what really
animated the place, that the instant they left, the water ceased flowing and
the swallows vanished. He had an unshakable faith in the transforming power of
their affections, and one morning as they dressed, preparing to return to
Hangtown, he asked her to leave with him.
     
    “To another
part of the valley?” She laughed sadly. “What good would that do? Pardiel would
follow us.”
     
    “No,” he
said. “To another country. Anywhere far from here.”
     
    “We can’t,”
she said, kicking at the wing. “Not until Griaule dies. Have you forgotten?”
     
    “We haven’t
tried.”
     
    “Others
have.”
     
    “But we’d be
strong enough. I know it!”
     
    “You’re a
romantic,” she said gloomily, and stared out over the slope of Griaule’s back
at the valley. Sunrise had washed the hills to crimson, and even the tips of
the wings were glowing a dull red.
     
    “Of course
I’m a romantic!” He stood, angry. “What the hell’s wrong with that?”
     
    She sighed
with exasperation. “You wouldn’t leave your work,” she said. “And if we did
leave, what work would you do? Would—”
     
    “Why must
everything be a problem in advance!” he shouted. “I’ll tattoo elephants! I’ll
paint murals on the chests of giants, I’ll illuminate whales! Who else is
better qualified?”
     
    She smiled,
and his anger evaporated.
     
    “I didn’t
mean it that way,” she said. “I just wondered if you could be satisfied with
anything else.”
     
    She reached
out her hand to be pulled up, and he drew her into an embrace. As he held her,
inhaling the scent of vanilla water from her hair, he saw a diminutive figure
silhouetted against the backdrop of the valley. It did not seem real - a black
homunculus - and even when it began to come forward, growing larger and larger,
it looked less a man than a magical keyhole opening in a crimson set hillside.
But Meric knew from the man’s rolling walk and the hulking set of his shoulders
that it was Pardiel; he was carrying a long-handled hook, one of those used by
artisans to manoeuvre along the scales.
     
    Meric
tensed, and Lise looked back to see what had alarmed him. “Oh, my God!” she
said, moving out of the embrace.
     
    Pardiel
stopped a dozen feet away. He said nothing. His face was in shadow, and the
hook swung lazily from his hand. Lise took a step towards him, then stepped
back and stood in front of Meric as if to shield him. Seeing this, Pardiel let
out an inarticulate yell and charged, slashing with the hook. Meric pushed Lise
aside and ducked. He caught a brimstone whiff of the calciners as Pardiel
rushed past and went sprawling, tripped by some irregularity in