Dark Tapestry

by Elaine Cunningham

  I spread my hands in a gesture of surrender and stepped aside. "As you will."

  The whore hit him before he could take a step. His eyes rolled back and he pitched forward into my arms. I lowered him to the floor and looked up at the woman who'd probably just saved my life.

  For the first time I looked past the lavish henna and kohl face paint to cheeks sunken with hunger and eyes that held the sort of cunning a rogue jackal might recognize.

  She hefted the wine jug, from which dangled a length of her chain. "Weighted bottle. Good thinking."

  "Not what I had in mind, but I've no complaints."

  "Is he dead?"

  She sounded only slightly curious. I tipped the sailor's head and thrust exploring fingers into his blood-sodden hair. After a few moments of prodding, I assured her he'd live and murmured the spell that could put him into a healing sleep—a state that, conveniently enough, would last until the ship made port.

  When his breathing evened out and deepened, I looked up and met the northern woman's gaze. It held, in nearly equal measure, a plea for help and the threat of blackmail.

  "Get me off this ship," she said softly.

  I sat back on my heels and considered my options. After a moment I shrugged and said, "Take off your dress."

  She peeled it off without hesitation. It took both of us to undress the sailor and wrestle his limp body into the orange gown. After we rolled him onto the bed, she quickly dressed in his clothing. The two of them were as thin as twin vipers and about the same height, but her pale skin would undo her at a glance.

  Once again, the northerner's thinking was running apace with mine. She sat down at the table and reached for a jar of henna. Into this she tipped some of the dull-yellow lamp oil and a drop of ink from my bottle, mixing in more ink drop by drop until the result was a shade of brown somewhere between the sailor's skin and mine.

  "His name was Rees," she said as she smoothed the ointment over her face. "You might as well call me that."

  I watched her transformation with narrowed eyes. After a moment, I glanced at her discarded chain. It ended in a bracelet that locked with a key. With the toe of one boot I eased the bracelet free of the last link. Blue Narwhal—the name of the ship—was engraved inside. When "Rees" was preoccupied with tucking her hair into the sailor's headscarf, I picked the bracelet up and dropped it into my pack.

  "Chiron is a small island," I observed. "They'll find you."

  The mirror reflected a bitter smile. "Not if I find

  ‘them' first."

  "Oh?"

  Rees spun around to face me. "My mistress sold me to this ship when she caught me abed with her favorite servant. I intend to strangle her with the chains she forced me to wear."

  "And after?"

  "I don't care what comes after! If you'd been a slave, you would understand," she said in a low, passionate voice. "You would do the same."

  "Do you hear me arguing with you?"

  Rees blinked. "Well. All right, then."

  "But don't use the chain, not unless you want her to hear you coming from two streets away." I unwound the bright silk scarf that covered my short black hair and long elven ears.

  Her eyes bulged. "Gods above! You're—"

  "Half-elven," I supplied wearily, well accustomed to her reaction.

  Half-elves were rare in Osirion, and I fit no one's idea of a half-elf. My mother had been a woman of Geb, and I had the height and the strong, proud features common to that nation's darkest people. My elven father's blood had lightened my skin to a warm brown common to humans from the northern Mwangi Expanse. That's what most people thought I was.

  A smile broke over Rees's darkened face and she reached out as if she would touch one of my ears. The look on my face changed her mind, but not her mood.

  "Brilliant," she said happily. "Every man on this ship will react to you just as I did, and none will give me a second look."

  She was quick. It was almost a pleasure to deal with someone who was able to keep abreast of my thinking.

  "And surely someone saw first you and then this sailor enter the cabin. They'll assume the three of us spent the night abed, and will not be surprised to see ‘Rees' leave the ship with you. He likes to drink, after," she added by way of explanation. "A night with the two of us would send him running to the nearest tavern, thirsty enough to drain a wine barrel to the lees."

  Maybe, I noted silently, where Rees was concerned I might do well to think a bit faster than usual.

  My newfound appreciation for money died shortly after Rees and I parted ways in Chiron's harbor.

  To any person of sense, much less a druid, excess is more likely to inspire disgust than envy. A thousand gluttons gorging themselves at tables heaped with food, stuffing themselves with both hands and demanding more and still more—that's what I saw when I beheld Chiron.

  The deepwater harbor was well enough, cleaner and more efficiently run than most ports, and the market beyond the docks lavish but not too unfamiliar. But beyond that lay walled estates and marbled palaces, the homes of wealthy merchants and sea captains, each one bigger and more obscenely extravagant than the last.

  I had no trouble finding the home of Bezaloo Hinder, the merchant who'd sold Vanir Shornish his "charming little pet"—a miniature blue elephant that was, in reality, a particularly nasty imp-like creature. I wanted to know why this Bezaloo considered the relic Vanir sought to be worth the risk of consorting with imps.

  Wine merchants, it would seem, did very well for themselves. His home was massive, built of gray stone on the edge of a steep, rocky cliff. For all its size, it was strangely devoid of servants. I had no problem entering the front gate with the merchants who brought supplies to the outlying buildings, no trouble lingering behind and finding an unlocked door in the inner wall. Climbing the rough stone wall to the second story and slipping through an open window was simplicity itself.

  I was halfway down the unlit hall when I came across the first body. A chambermaid, not much more than a girl, sat on the floor, her thin legs splayed and her body slumped against an oversized vase. Her braided hair and white clothes were neat and orderly, but her head canted at an impossible angle. She'd died quickly, without a chance to fight back.

  I crouched beside her and saw the thin trickles of dried blood running down one side of her neck. There were four small puncture marks just under her jaw, tiny crescents that dug deep. Something with strong, small hands had hit her hard enough to snap her neck. Judging from the shape and placement of those crescents, the creature had faced her when it attacked, and killed with a single backhanded blow. And judging by the size and span of those hands, the creature was small—too small to reach the girl's face unless it had wings.

  Another servant lay sprawled on the nearby stairs, but my gaze went to the bald, richly dressed man on the marble floor below.

  The creature had taken its time with Bezaloo Hinder. His garments had been shredded by small claws, his flesh torn by small, sharp teeth. Small gobbets of flesh littered the floor, as if they had been torn free and then spit out, playfully, like urchins spitting melon seeds for distance.

  The imp, it would appear, had beat me here.

  I rose slowly to my feet, trying to make sense of this new development. Perhaps Bezaloo had sold the miniature "elephant" to Vanir Shornish in good faith, not understanding its true nature. More likely, some other party, someone who'd observed Vanir drinking lavishly of the wine merchant's wares, had sent the imp after him.

  "It seems I'm not the first to come looking for the wine merchant."

  Yes, that was probably what had happened. Vanir had mentioned that he had noticed no great sum missing from his purse, nothing that would explain the purchase of such an exotic pet.

  What was certain is that someone else was involved. Imps and demons did not wand
er the Material Plane at will; they had to be summoned.

  I left the house by a side door and started for the gate closest to the harbor. I'd have to find passage on another ship. By now the captain and crew of the Blue Narwhal would have learned of my part in freeing their ship's whore. They were unlikely to welcome me back. I would not trust them if they did.

  The tolling of bells rolled up from the harbor, the signal of a coming hue and cry. A crime had been committed, and everyone was required by law to listen to the coming proclamation and spread it until the criminal was captured. On an island, this was no doubt highly effective. I paused to listen, though I had a pretty good idea what was to come.

  A low, distant murmur spread through the streets like a sandstorm, swiftly gaining in power as the message worked its way toward Bezaloo's cliff-side mansion. Clearly, people responded with alacrity when the victim was a wealthy woman.

  "Channa Ti," howled a voice from the street beyond Bezaloo's outer walls. "Half-elf, looks to be a woman of the Mwangi Expanse. Murdered the Lady Pizante Ross. Detain or slay."

  I nodded as I retraced my steps into the mansion. There was a risk that "Rees," with her darkened skin and bright turban—my turban in truth, or another like mine—would let herself be seen near the home of her former mistress. And most likely she'd left my scarf behind. No one would raise an alarm for an escaped slave, so she might even find a way to get away altogether.

  It wasn't a bad plan, I admitted as I stooped to leave her slave bracelet beside Bezaloo's body. No one would raise an alarm for an escaped slave—unless they had reason to suspect that slave of a vicious murder.

  Justice assured, treachery repaid.

  And now, to find my escape.

  There was water under the house, a grotto. I could feel the shape of it, and beyond, the long narrow passage that led to the open sea. I followed my senses down a series of halls, then down a winding stair into a vast stone-walled wine cellar. In a far corner I found a barrel, wide and low. A thick layer of dust covered it. I brushed some of it away. Putting my ear to the cover, I listened for the distant murmur of water.

  What I heard was a faint, eerie chanting, a sound that chilled my blood and made my heart forget its business for a beat or two.

  I am a druid, what Vanir Shornish poetically termed a "priestess of nature," but I have no patience with those who toss about talk of "good" and "evil" as a way of sorting things that suit their purposes from things that do not. It seems to me that the mountain cat is no worse than the rodent it hunts. A paladin's noble steed must eat, but so must a shark. People, in my experience, are much the same. They will survive if they can, however they can. "Good" and "evil" are human creations, words meant to excuse and explain and justify. But when all's said and done, these words mean nothing more than "us" and "them."

  I have always believed this to be true. But there was something in that distant chant—a dark energy, a cold and deadly weight—that made certainty shift beneath my feet.

  My natural curiosity—not to mention my Pathfinder mission—quickly came to the fore. I pushed aside my fear along with the barrel lid. Inside I found a long shaft, and a rope ladder leading down into the darkness.

  The chanting grew louder as I descended, and the darkness gave way to a faint glow. I crept through jagged rock formations, following the light, the sound, and my own sense of water.

  Candles ringed a small deep pool and chased weird shadows across the faces of the men gathered there.

  I knew at once what they were. The Pathfinders had long heard rumors of the Night Heralds, a cult devoted to the Dominions of the Black. They had no god, not as most people understood deities. Their devotion was given to the Dark Tapestry—the deep cold spaces between worlds. No one I knew had ever seen these Night Heralds, but the symbolism of their ceremonial robes could not be clearer. The hems sweeping the rocky floor were the pink and gold shades of sunset clouds, and the robes' colors darkened around knee level to a sunset shade of sapphire, and finally to a dark, faintly luminous purple. The deep hood drawn over each head was midnight black.

  I know I made no sound, but one of the Night Heralds looked up, sharply, his shadowed face turned in my direction.

  The change came over me suddenly, more by instinct than choice. I dropped to all fours as thick, scaly hide swept over my body. Fast as a cat I darted forward, moving on four short, powerful legs.

  Chanting gave way to shouts of surprise. The priests nearest me fell back, suddenly more human than fiend. I slipped into the water, diving deep and fast.

  The sea passage was long; fear quickened my heart and shortened my breath. But no creature on this world, except perhaps the hardiest of scarab beetles, had a stronger survival instinct than the crocodile. Somehow I made it through; somehow I burst free of the water and gulped in sweet, salty air.

  Swimming to the mainland seemed easy in comparison. I followed the sound of voices raised in the singsong rhythm of a short-haul fishing shanty. A half-dozen peasants stood knee-deep in the surf, working in pairs to toss out small nets and haul them back.

  I reared up in the water, lashing my tail and letting out a long, guttural roar.

  The fishermen dropped their nets and fled, leaving their tackle and clothing behind. I gave chase to make sure there would be no witnesses to my transformation.

  The crocodile mind is strong and slow to retreat. Several moments passed before I realized that I was running on two legs rather than four. I retraced my steps to where the fishermen had left their gear and changed into the rough tunic and trousers one of the men had left behind. After burying my "Lady Channa" clothes in the sand, I left a coin as payment and set off for the nearby town.

  Until I cleansed my name of the stain Rees had put upon it, I would have to stay clear of the sea. Chiron was a busy port; many northbound ships stopped there. The risk that a captain of any ship I might approach might have heard the accusation against me was larger than I wanted to take.

  So it was dry land for me. Familiar land, certainly. Just twenty days ago, I'd been hired to guide a band of adventurers through the monster-infested nightmare known as the Brazen Peaks. Every man and woman in that band and under my protection was dead, and I was... more than a little annoyed.

  A wry smile twisted my lips. My old friend Ratsheek and her clan were out there waiting, and suddenly that was fine with me.

  Justice would be done, betrayal repaid.

  I lifted my face to the midday heat. Suddenly it seemed a very fine day for a walk.

  Chapter Three: Raising the Green Flag

  I had no problem blending into the crowd, despite being taller than any of the women and most of the men. Ziloth was a small market town just north of the border between Osirion and Katapesh, and people of all sorts passed through. The rapt faces turned toward the Pool of Justice ranged in hue from sand-colored to ebony. I fell somewhere in the middle, and as long as I covered my ears with a headscarf, people assumed I was a woman from the Mwangi Expanse. Without the scarf, I'd probably join the "criminals" awaiting their turn in the dunking stool.

  Not that half-elves are hated in Osirion, exactly, but we are solitary in nature and therefore unlikely to be missed; in short, we're the sort of people the magistrate's men would seek out if the day's entertainment was deemed insufficient.

  Ziloth's magistrate was a tall man with the red-brown skin common to well-born Osirians. Naked to the waist and wearing a gilded mask and a fortune in cloth-of-gold kilted around his hips, he stood on the dais surrounding the pool, gazing intently into the roiling water. Suddenly he raised his jackal-headed staff and brought it sharply down on the wooden platform.

  The water wraiths had passed judgment.

  A murmur of anticipation rippled through the crowd as two of the magistrate's servants feverishly turned cranks, one of which was attached to the gears and pulleys that lifte
d the dunking stool from the pool, the other a smaller crank that raised a banner proclaiming the verdict. As the green flag rose, the crowd erupted into cheers and groans, depending upon the wagers they'd made.

  "Guilty," said the man standing to my left. The satisfaction ringing through his voice raised my curiosity, even before he added, "May the embalmers piss on his rotting corpse."

  Now, Osirians are fond of cursing each other, but most are content to cast aspersions on a man's lineage or question the nature of his relationship with camels. Embalming touches upon the afterlife; it's a serious matter, never invoked lightly.

  I elbowed the speaker to get his attention. "That man did you wrong?"

  "Man?" He turned away and spat on the ground. "Long-eared spawn of a two-legged jackal."

  Ah. An elf, then.

  I smirked to acknowledge his opinion of my half-kin and turned my attention back to the dais. The magistrate's servants plucked several sinuous, foot-long lizards from the condemned elf's body and tossed them back into the pool. There was no denying that the water wraiths were very green indeed.

  Native to the Mwangi Expanse, the color-changing lizards known as water wraiths can match their surroundings so perfectly as to appear invisible. In open waters, they can grow to nearly the length of crocodiles, and they're every bit as vicious. They can tear their prey to shreds with the talons on their eight short, powerful legs, but prefer to latch on and suck blood like lampreys. They possess a sort of dim intelligence and are able to change their color at will. Local superstition claims water wraiths prefer the blood of the innocent. Since the creatures frequently turn red as they enter feeding frenzy, red is considered the color of innocence. Assuming the magistrate's men can pull the lizards off in time, the exonerated party is free to go.

  A cynical person might look to the three bodies tossed to one side of the dais and assume the lizards' latest verdict had more to do with their full bellies than the elf's guilt. I knew better. Years ago, I took the shape of a water wraith to battle elves who meant me harm. It is impossible to take a creature's shape without also knowing something of its mind and habits. From this experience I learned that, in the opinion of water wraiths, elves are not very tasty.