The Spook 9 - Slither's tale Read Free

farmer. ‘Do ye remember the terms of the first trade we made?’
    I didn’t reply but I remembered them all right. The trade had taken place seven years earlier when Nessa had just turned ten.
    ‘While I live, keep away from my three daughters!’ he’d warned. ‘But if anything ever happens to me, you can have the eldest, Nessa, in return for taking the other two south to their aunt and uncle in Pwodente. They live in the village of Stoneleigh, close to the last bridge before the Western Sea . . .’
    ‘I’ll take care of them,’ I’d promised, realizing that this could be the beginning of years of useful trade with the farmer. ‘Treat ’em like family.’
    ‘A trade,’ the old man had insisted. ‘Is it a trade?’
    ‘Yes,’ I’d agreed. ‘It’s a trade.’
    It had been a good trade because, according to the law of Bindos, each Kobalos citizen has to sell in the slave markets at least one purra – or human girl – every forty years or become an outcast, shunned by his fellows and slain on sight. As a haizda mage, I did not normally dabble in the markets and did not wish to own females in the customary way. But I knew that the time would come when I must meet my next obligation or suffer the consequences. Otherwise I would become an outlaw, hunted down by my own people. Rowler was old; once he was dead I could sell Nessa.
    And now here he was before me, dying, and Nessa was mine.
    The farmer began to cough up a dark clot of phlegm and blood. He hadn’t long now. Within moments he’d be dead.
    It would take a week at most to deliver the two younger girls to their relatives. Then Nessa would belong to me. I could force her north to the slave market, taking my time while I sampled some of her blood on the way.
    Suddenly the old man began to fumble in the pocket of his overcoat. Perhaps he was searching for a weapon, I thought.
    But he pulled out a little brown notebook and a pencil. With shaking hands, not even looking at the page, he began to scribble. He scribbled a lot of words for a dying man. When he’d finished, he tore out the page and held it towards me. Cautiously, I moved closer and accepted the note.
    ‘It’s to Nessa,’ Rowler whispered. ‘I’ve told her what she has to do. You can have everything – the farm, the animals and Nessa. Remember what we agreed? All you have to do is get Susan and Bryony to their aunt and uncle. Will you keep to our trade? Will ye do it?’
    I read the note quickly. When I’d finished, I folded it in two and pushed it into my overcoat pocket. Then I smiled, showing just a hint of teeth. ‘We made a trade and I’m honour-bound to keep to it,’ I said.
    Then I waited with Old Rowler until he died. It took longer than I expected. He struggled for breath and seemed reluctant to go, even though he was in great pain. The sun had sunk well below the horizon before he gave a final shudder.
    I watched him very carefully, my curiosity aroused. I had traded with Old Rowler for seven years, but flesh and blood is opaque and hides the true nature of the soul within. I had often wondered about this stubborn, brave but sometimes cantankerous old farmer. Now, at last, I would finally find out exactly what he was.
    I was waiting to see his soul leave his body, and I wasn’t disappointed.
    A grey shape began to materialize above the crumpled overcoat. It was very faint and ever so slightly luminous. It was helical in form, a faint spiral, and much, much smaller than Old Rowler. I’d often watched human souls before and I liked to wait and see which way they would go.
    So what was Old Rowler?
    Was he an ‘Up’ or a ‘Down’?
    I harvest souls and draw power from them, absorbing them into my own spirit. So I prepared myself to reach out and snatch the farmer’s soul. It was a difficult thing to do and, even with the whole force of my concentration, could only be accomplished if the soul lingered a while. But this soul did not tarry.
    With a faint whistle it began to