Midwinter 02: The Office of Shadow

by Matthew Sturges

  It is speculated that the odd, guttural language that has so confounded linguists (on the rare occasions the Arami have consented to be interviewed) is actually a variation of the original Elvish tongue. If they are to be believed, they are the last remaining vestige of the aboriginal Fae.

  The Unseelie take no heed of the Arami. The Unseelie only leave their flying cities to take water from the wells that dot the landscape during periods of little rain, which are common in that northern clime. The Arami scrupulously avoid them when they come to ground.

  -Stil-Fret, ''The Arami: the Unknown Fae of the North;' from Travels at Home and Abroad

  atterns. Ironfoot was lost in patterns. Two of them, one superimposed on the other. They were similar, but not the same. Almost identical, in fact. But at the heart of them was a discrepancy, an error, like an elegant equation that hid an undefined term somewhere within it. Everything looked right on the surface; it was only by traversing the threads of the patterns that the impossibility was visible.

  But where was this error? What caused it? He traced the pattern in his mind, but it was so large and elusive that he couldn't hold it. As he envisioned one portion of it, the others slid away from him; it was impossible to connect it all. He needed paper, and his map.

  He reached for paper, but his arm wouldn't move. He tried to sit up, but something heavy was on top of him. He began to panic. He opened his eyes. It was dark, black within black. His throat made a strangling noise, halfway between a whimper and a scream. Where was he?

  "Over here!" came a voice. "I heard something!"

  Ironfoot reached into his body and tried to calm it, as Paet had tried to teach him during one of their regular trainings a few weeks earlier. He'd never quite understood what Paet had meant; but his mind was attuned to patterns at the moment, and suddenly he could read the patterns within his own body, the energies that coursed through him and the objects that the energies connected. There was his heart, thudding. He willed it to slow and it slowed. There was another tiny thing, spitting out panic into his blood. He willed it to stop, and it stopped.

  He willed strength into his arms and pushed. He and Silverdun had lately developed what they referred to as Shadow strength, far beyond what they'd once been used to. The thing above him moved, but not by much. But here was a bit of useful information; there was only so much Shadow strength in this body of his. He'd pushed too hard, and now his arms fell weakly to his sides in the enclosed space.

  It wasn't good enough. But then again, it never was.

  When Ironfoot was a child, his father had always goaded him. "Don't end up like me, boy," he'd said as the two of them sheared sheep. The price of wool had dropped for three years straight, and his father had already sold off three of his best ewes. "You're smart," he'd said. "You have to make something of yourself."

  So when Ironfoot enlisted in the army, it was with the determination to do everything he could to get ahead. He knew he was smart, and that he had several of the Gifts, but there was no place for a shepherd's son at a school like Queensbridge. Most of the students at such schools were the sons and daughters of lords or wealthy guildsmen, and they'd all been sent to expensive academies as children. Ironfoot, on the other hand, had gone to the village school until the age of ten and then had gone to work for his father. He'd stayed up late, long after his father had gone to bed, reading, studying basic thaumatics, teaching himself to make the witchlight that he read by.

  He'd moved up quickly in the ranks as an enlisted man, but as a commoner, there was a point beyond which there was no advancement.

  Then came the Gnomic War. He'd been a sergeant in the Third Battalion of the Dragon Regiment, responsible for Ram Company. In the army, Ironfoot had made a reputation as a perfectionist. He demanded nothing but the best from himself and from his soldiers. Some hated him for it, most complained, but they all respected him. And it soon became clear as the Gnomic campaign progressed, and Ironfoot's company led in kills without losing a single soldier, that he was a fine commander as well.

  His own commander, however, Colonel Samel-La, was far less fine. Put simply, Samel-La was a fool, and was totally unsuited for combat. He had no knowledge of tactics, believing that the solution to every problem was to throw battle mages and soldiers at it until it went away. As a commander, he was lax and allowed his junior officers to curry favor with him, listening to those who agreed with him and ignoring those who did not. Even after Ironfoot earned four Laurels serving beneath him, Samel-La refused to take his advice. It didn't take long for Samel-La and Ironfoot to find a way to butt heads.

  When they entered the Gnokka River Valley, just south of Cmir, everything went wrong all at once. The Gnomics were waiting for them, having taken up positions along the slope on either side. Ironfoot saw the trap immediately, and warned Samel-La to retreat, but Samel-La claimed that Seelie never retreated, especially against savages like the Gnomics. Ironfoot attempted to explain that retreat was one of the fundamental tactics of war, but Samel-La refused to listen.

  The battle very quickly turned ugly. Casualties began mounting by the dozens. More and more Gnomics appeared over the rim of the valley, and still Samel-La refused to retreat.

  It was not until they'd been flanked in the rear, when retreat was no longer possible, that Samel-La decided he'd had enough. He took a single company and bolted to the rear, his intent apparently to break through the Gnomic line and flee, stranding his own battalion. He and his entire company were slaughtered moments after they left the main Seelie force.

  Confusion reigned for a few desperate minutes, in which none of the Seelie soldiers knew what to do and the lines were folding in. It appeared as though they were doomed to a slaughter.

  But Ironfoot stood up in his saddle and shouted orders to his company, taking command of the battalion. He drew in and stitched up the lines, reunited the soldiers into a unified force. Together they not only repelled the Gnomic attack, but took the valley, forcing the Gnomics into a retreat.

  When it was over, the regiment commander, General Jeric, explained to Ironfoot that it was not possible to award him a fifth Laurel for his valor in this particular battle. Samel-La had been the son of an influential lord who had his fingers on the army's purse strings. And thus Samel-La would be said to have died of wounds sustained leading the Third Battalion to victory in the battle of Gnokka Valley.

  General Jeric, however, understood what Ironfoot had done, and what was taken from him. He asked Ironfoot whether there was anything he could do to cushion the blow.

  "I want to go to Queensbridge," he'd said, without a moment's pause.

  Three days later, Ironfoot was honorably discharged from the Seelie Army, just hours after being commissioned a lieutenant. As an officer in the Seelie Army, he was eligible to attend Queensbridge, and with the warm personal recommendation of the Third Battalion's commander, he was happily accepted.

  At Queensbridge he'd become more of a perfectionist than ever. He wasn't satisfied unless he got not just top marks, but the top marks. At any task of thaumatics, he demanded success from himself. He never quit. He worked harder and did more and he succeeded.

  And he hadn't ever been able to stop.

  Here he sat now with the greatest challenge of his life in front of him. It wasn't just that success was important. It was everything. Nothing less than perfection mattered.

  Nothing.

  There was a crunching noise above him. "Right here," came the voice again. Silverdun. "Well, don't just stand there. Help me!"

  The object above him moved a little; then it began to rise slowly. There came the sound of voices grunting in labor. The object lifted a bit more, and then was shoved sideways.

  A silhouette looked down at him, surrounded by witchlight. "Still alive, I take it?"

  "Silverdun!" he gasped.

  "I know you're always eager to display your manliness," said Silverdun, "but pinning yourself under a yacht seems excessive, even for you."

  Ironfoot stood, s
hakily, and stumbled. Beneath him was not solid ground, but something soft and springy, like a feather mattress, only infinitely more pliable. Silverdun reached down and pulled him up onto ... something.

  In the dark it was difficult to comprehend what he was seeing. There was very little light other than witchlight, which illuminated Silverdun's relieved expression. There were a number of robed figures standing nearby. Next to him, a black hulk, was the fore half of the yacht. It registered that he had briefly lifted the entire thing on his own. They were surrounded on all sides by strange shapes, and the place smelled faintly of garbage.

  Something slapped against Ironfoot's hip as he took a step toward Silverdun. It was Timha's satchel. Somehow he'd managed to hold on to it.

  Sela was behind Silverdun. She had a huge gash on the side of her head, and blood streaming down her dress, but she seemed not much the worse for wear. Silverdun was a bit rumpled, but otherwise seemed fine. Timha was stumbling toward them as well, his breathing ragged and hitching with what might have been sobs.

  All else was darkness. No, not quite; on the horizon he could see silver wheat swaying in the moonlight.

  "What happened?" he said.

  "More to the point, what did not happen?" said Silverdun. "What didn't happen was that we didn't get crushed to bits after falling a thousand feet in a burning yacht."

  "And how did that not happen, exactly?" asked Ironfoot, baffled. The last thing he remembered was being on board the yacht, flames hissing through the air. After that it was all a little fuzzy.

  "Because of them," said Silverdun. He gestured toward the robed figures standing nearby. Ironfoot noticed that most of them were carrying bulging sacks; two of them were carrying a large item between them. A table?

  One of them stepped forward. All that Ironfoot could see of him was that he was lean and tall and his head was shaved clean. "Hello," he said. "I am Je Wen. Welcome to the ground." He spoke Common haltingly, in a thick, strange accent.

  "You saved us?" said Ironfoot. "How?"

  "We did not save you," said Je Wen. "You fell into our net."

  A chaotic groaning sound issued from all around, and the ground swayed beneath their feet, as though they were on a ship on the sea. Ironfoot, Sela, and Silverdun toppled over, but the robed figures remained on their feet.

  "We're standing on a sheet of Motion," said Silverdun, shakily rising to his feet. "A massive one. Incredibly soft and flexible; like a great fluffy pillow."

  Je Wen looked back at his fellow. "Let us take what we need and be gone," he said. He turned to Silverdun. "We would like for you to come with us."

  "Who are you people?" said Ironfoot.

  "They're Arami," said Timha. "And if they saved us, they'll want something for it."

  "I thought you didn't interact with the Fae of the cities," said Ironfoot.

  "Only that one," said Je Wen, pointing at Timha, "is of the cities. You are not."

  "How-?" Ironfoot began, but the sea of objects around them groaned again, and the swaying grew in fierceness.

  "We must go," said Je Wen. It would be wise for the four of you to accompany us."

  Ironfoot looked at Silverdun, and Silverdun shrugged. "Unless you have something better to do?"

  "You can't trust these people," said Timha. "I'm telling you."

  "You've been overruled," said Silverdun. "Let's go."

  Sela nodded as well. Ironfoot followed Je Wen and his fellows toward the silver light on the horizon. In the back of his mind were two similar patterns, twirling in his thoughts, but they were indistinct now, and he put them out of his mind.

  Ironfoot tried to keep up with Je Wen, but it was difficult. The ground continued to sway beneath him, and the terrain was uneven and sometimes slippery. "What am I walking on?" he asked.

  Je Wen smiled. "Our net collects what those above discard. All that they do not want they simply throw onto the ground."

  "So we're walking on their refuse," said Ironfoot.

  "Indeed. Castoff furniture, uneaten food, animal scraps, feces. If they do not want it, we catch it in our net."

  Feces.

  "Why?"

  "Because the Arami are scavengers, who make nothing of their own," said Timha, straggling along behind.

  Je Wen smiled. "Because they are wasteful, and we are not."

  After a few minutes of slow travel across the strange sea of refuse, they began to near the edge, and the debris began to thin until Ironfoot found himself standing on a flat surface that gave beneath his feet, cushioning his steps.

  "This is soft," said Ironfoot. "But I don't see how it kept us all from being smashed to bits."

  "It is a very clever net."

  They reached the edge, which was a perfectly straight line, and Je Wen hopped off onto the ground, a few feet below, which seemed to be moving beneath them. It was lighter here, and now Ironfoot could see Je Wen's face. It was strong and lined, there was a bit of light stubble on his head, and he had a neatly trimmed beard that glowed white in the moonlight. His eyes were clear and light, though it was difficult to tell whether they were blue or gray in the monochrome world of night.

  Ironfoot looked back into a sea of darkness.

  "Come along," said Je Wen. Ironfoot noticed that Silverdun and Sela had already jumped from the edge of the blackness, and that the other Arami were handing their collected loot off to their comrades. They were moving slowly away from him. A little way away, wide carts pulled by long lines of the tiniest horses Ironfoot had ever seen were stopping nearby.

  He jumped off and stumbled again on the moving ground. He turned and realized that, of course, it was not the ground that was moving, but the "net," which followed along beneath the city.

  "Does it track the city wherever it goes?" asked Silverdun.

  Je Wen shook his head. "Only at night, and only when they pass nearby. We know their paths and follow them as need requires."

  Ironfoot watched the umbra recede. He looked up at the underbelly of the city. From beneath, Preyia was an eyesore. Its hull was discolored and uneven, dark. A fine mist fell from it.

  "All that," said Ironfoot, pointing, "is one night's worth of garbage?"

  "As I said," said Je Wen, "they are a wasteful people."

  Timha was the last one off the net. He scowled at Je Wen, but came anyway.

  They walked to the carts as a group. Sela pointed out that it would be polite to offer to help carry what the Arami had collected. Ironfoot took a sack from one of the robed figures, who nodded in thanks, but did not speak. As Ironfoot carried it to the carts, he peeked inside: a half-eaten loaf of bread, a cabbage, a belt, a bolt of cloth, a cheese, and other items that he couldn't identify in the darkness.

  They reached the carts, and Ironfoot realized with surprise that the creatures pulling the wagons were not horses, but goats. Tall, short-horned goats that made quiet guttural sounds as they stood impatiently in their harness. The carts were low and wide, and their wheels huge.

  "Come along," said Je Wen, motioning for Ironfoot, Silverdun, and Sela to climb aboard the carts. "A large quake will come to this place in a few minutes."

  Presently the carts were all loaded with both goods and passengers. The loot was carefully tied down in the backs of the carts. Ironfoot, Silverdun, Timha, and Sela sat in the front cart with Je Wen. The goats hopped along, pulling the cart faster than Ironfoot would have suspected, their heads popping up comically out of the tall wild grain that the carts now passed through.

  The ground suddenly shook, and the cart jerked to the left. Ironfoot realized why it was built so wide; the wheels on the right side of the cart leapt off the ground for a moment, but there was no danger of the thing tipping. The goats barely seemed to notice. Their hopping gait continued as if nothing had happened.

  "Look," said Je Wen, pointing. The city and its shadow were receding across the uneven plain. The Arami net, seen from the side, was a large irregular black disk that floated a few feet off the ground. A loud crack like thunder p
ealed in the night, and the earth beneath the city cracked open in a shower of dust. The net crumpled and fell in on itself, and its contents spilled haphazardly. Much of it fell into the new ravine that had been created by the quake.

  "Lovely, isn't it?" said Je Wen. "Everything returns eventually to its source."

  "Lovely" wasn't the first word that sprang to Ironfoot's mind, but it was certainly impressive. He watched Preyia drift like a cloud across the sky, and was glad to see it go.

  The carts reached the end of the tall grain stalks, jostling along through aftershocks of the quake that lessened over time and distance. They came to an uneven, rocky plain peppered with tiny thornbushes and joined a rutted track that cut across it toward a tiny valley. In places the track vanished only to reappear a few yards on, and in other places the ruts zigzagged haphazardly, as if the ground beneath them had been torn apart and inexpertly replaced. In the distance they heard the cries of wolves, which spooked the goats, but they never saw them.